¥JL'\CaSU5 of 



POLLOCK 
DLNLSON 




Book, ' - ' • 

Gopight W 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE PARACELSUS 

OF 

ROBERT BROWNING 



" It is in Paracelsus (the work that posterity will probably 
estimate as Browning's greatest) that we must look for the 
strongest proof of his sympathy with man's desire to know 
and bend the forces of nature to his service." 

Edward Berdoe 



THE PARACELSUS 



OF 



ROBERT BROWNING 



BY 

CHRISTINA POLLOCK DENISON 




NEW YORK 

THE BAKER AND TAYLOR COMPANY 

1911 



Copyright, 1911, by 
The Baker & Taylor Co. 






THE • PLIMPTON • PRESS 

[ W D«o] 
NORWOOD • MASS • U • S • A 



©CI.A293727 



r 

I 

5 



TO YOU, DEAR 

THIS LITTLE BOOK IS 

AFFECTIONATELY 

INSCRIBED 



FOREWORD 



FOR a comprehensive understanding of 
Robert Browning's poem "Paracelsus," 
some knowledge of the man Paracel- 
sus and his doctrines is necessary. In 
an historical note and comment. Browning 
says: "The liberties I have taken with my 
subject are very trifling and the reader may 
slip the foregoing scenes between the leaves 
of any memoir of Paracelsus he pleases by 
way of commentary." In all other respects I 
leave this volume to speak for itself. For 
valuable infoi:mation I wish to gratefully 
acknowledge my obligation to Mr. Berdoe's 
"Browning Cyclopedia," Mr. Wm. Sharp's 
"Life of Robert Browning," Hartmann's 
"History of Paracelsus," Erdmann's "His- 
tory of Philosophy," and to some of the 
Browning Society's papers. 

January 4, 1911. 



[vii] 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Paracelsus, The Man 1 

The Philosophy of Paracelsus ... 35 

Note 59 

Paracelsus, the Poem 65 

General Review of the Poem bringing 

out the most significant passages . 191 

Glossary of Words and Allusions . . 233 



PARACELSUS, THE ^L\X 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 



PHILIPPUS AUREOLUS THEOPH- 
RASTUS BOMBAST, of Hohenheim, 
known as Paracelsus (a name coined 
for himself, apparently meaning to 
imply that he was greater than Celsus), was 
born in the year 1493, in the vicinity of 
a place called Einsiedeln, a village some 
leagues distant from the city of Zurich, in 
Switzerland. His father, William Bombast, 
of Hohenheim, was one of the descendants of 
the old and celebrated family Bombast, and 
they were called of Hohenheim, after their 
ancient residence, known as Hohenheim, a 
castle near the village of Plinnigen, in the 
vicinity of Stuttgart, in Wurtemburg. He 
was a relative of the Grand Master of the 
Order of the Knights of St. John of these 
times, whose name was George Bombast of 
Hohenheim. He established himself, in his 
capacity of a physician, near Einsiedeln; 
and in the year 1492 he married the matron 



[3] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

of the hospital belonging to the abbey of that 
place, and the result of their marriage was 
Theophrastus, their only child. It may be 
mentioned that Paracelsus, in consideration 
of the place of his birth, has also been called 
Helvetius Eremita, and furthermore we 
sometimes find him called Germanus, Suevus, 
and Arpinus. 

An old tradition says that Paracelsus was 
emasculated in infancy by accident or by a 
drunken soldier. The truth of this has not 
been ascertained but by many people is 
regarded as one of the calumnies invented by 
his enemies. It is certain, however, that no 
beard grew on his face, and his skull, which 
is still in existence, resembles the formation 
of a female rather that that of a male. He 
is painted nowhere with a beard. His por- 
trait, in life-size, can still be seen at Salzburg, 
painted on the wall of his residence (Linzer 
Street, No. 365, opposite the church of St. 
Andrew). Other portraits of Paracelsus are 
to be found in Huser's edition of his works, 
and in the first volume of Hauber's "Biblio- 
theca Magica." 

The head of Paracelsus, painted by Kaul- 

bach in his celebrated picture, at the Museum 

at Berlin, called "The Age of Reformation," 
— 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

is idealized and bears little resemblance to 
the original. 

In his early youth Paracelsus obtained 
instructions in science from his father, who 
taught him the rudiments of alchemy, sur- 
gery, and medicine. He always honored the 
memory of his father, and always spoke in the 
kindest terms of him, who was not only his 
father, but also his friend and instructor. 
He afterwards continued his studies under 
the tuition of the monks of the convent of 
St. Andrew, situated in the valley of Savon, 
under the guidance of the learned bishops, 
Eberhardt Baumgartner, Mathias Scheydt, 
of Rottgach, and Mathias Schacht, of Freis- 
ingen. Having attained his sixteenth year, 
he was sent to study at the University of 
Basel. He was afterwards instructed by the 
celebrated Johann Trithemius, of Spanheim, 
abbot of St. Jacob, at Wurzburg (1461-1516), 
one of the greatest adepts of magic, alchemy, 
and astrology, and it was under this teacher 
that his talents for the study of occultism 
were especially cultivated and brought into 
practical use. His love for the occult sciences 
led him to enter the laboratory of the rich 
Sigismund Fugger at Schwatz, in Tyrol, who, 
like the abbot, was a celebrated alchemist, 

[5] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

and able to teach to his disciple many a 
valuable secret. 

Later on, Paracelsus traveled a great deal. 
He visited Germany, Italy, France, the 
Netherlands, Denmark, Sweden, and Russia, 
and it is said that he even went to India, be- 
cause he was taken prisoner by the Tartars 
and brought to the Khan, whose son he 
afterwards accompanied to Constantinople. 
Every reader of the works of Paracelsus, who 
is also acquainted with the recent revela- 
tions made by the Eastern Adepts, cannot 
fail to notice the similarity of the two sys- 
tems, which in many respects are almost 
identical, and it is therefore quite probable 
that Paracelsus, during his captivity in Tar- 
tary, was instructed in the secret doctrine 
by the teachers of occultism in the East. 
The information given by Paracelsus in re- 
gard to the sevenfold principles of man, the 
qualities of the astral body, the earth-bound 
elementaries, etc., was then entirely unknown 
in the West. Paracelsus, moreover, wrote a 
great deal about the Elementals, or spirits of 
Nature, but in his description of them he 
substituted for the Eastern terms such as 
were more in harmony with the German 
mythological conceptions of the same, for 

_ 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

the purpose of bringing these subjects more 
to the understanding of his countrymen, who 
were used to the Western method of thought. 
It is probable that Paracelsus stayed among 
the Tatars between 1513 and 1521, because, 
according to Van Helmont's account, he 
came to Constantinople during the latter 
year, and received there "The Philosopher's 
Stone." 1 

The Adept from whom Paracelsus received 
this stone was, according to a certain aureum 
vellus (printed at Rorschach, 1598), a cer- 
tain Solomon Trismosinus (or Pfeiffer), a 
countryman of Paracelsus. It is said that 
this Trismosinus was also in possession of 
the Universal Panacea; and it is asserted 
that he had been seen still alive, by a French 
traveler, at the end of the seventeenth 
century. 

^"The Philosopher's Stone." This is not a stone in the 
usual sense of the term, but an allegorical expression, mean- 
ing the principle of wisdom upon which the philosopher who 
has obtained it by practical experience (not the one who is 
merely speculating about it) may fully rely on, as he would 
rely on the value of a precious stone, or as he would trust to 
a solid rock upon which to build the foundation of his (spirit- 
ual) house. It is the Christ in man: divine love substan- 
tialized. It is the light of the world; the very essence of 
that of which the world has been created; it is not mere 
spirit but substantial; for in the body of man is contained 
the greatest of all mysteries. " Paracelsus, Greatest of the 
Alchemists." Dr. Franz Hartmann. 

m 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Paracelsus traveled through the countries 
along the Danube, and came to Italy, where 
he served as an army surgeon in the Imperial 
army, and participated in many of the war- 
like expeditions of these times. On these 
occasions he collected a great deal of useful 
information, not only from physicians, sur- 
geons, and alchemists, but also by his inter- 
course with executioners, barbers, shepherds, 
Jews, gipsies, midwives, and fortune-tellers. 
He collected useful information from the high 
and the low, from the learned and from the 
vulgar, and it was nothing unusual to see 
him in the company of teamsters and vaga- 
bonds, on the highways and at public inns — 
a circumstance on account of which his 
narrow-minded enemies heaped upon him 
bitter reproach and vilifications. Having 
traveled for ten years — sometimes exerci- 
sing his art as a physician, at other times 
teaching or studying alchemy and magic, ^ 
according to the custom of these days — he 
returned at the age of thirty-two again to 
Germany, where he soon became very cele- 

^ Paracelsus says: "Magic and Sorcery are two entirely 
different'things, and there is as much difference between them 
as there is between light and darkness, and between white 
and black. Magic is the greatest wisdom and knowledge of 
the supernatural powers." 

m 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

brated on account of the many and wonder- 
ful cures which he performed. 

In the year 1525 Paracelsus went to 
Basel; and in 1527, on the recommendation 
of (Ecolampadius, he was appointed by the 
City Council a professor of physics, medicine, 
and surgery, receiving a considerable salary. 
His lectures were not — like those of his 
colleagues — mere repetitions of the opinions 
of Galen, Hippocrates, and Avicenna, the ex- 
position of which formed the sole occupation 
of the professors of medicine of those times. 
His doctrines were essentially doctrines of 
his own, and he taught them independently 
of the opinions of others, gaining thereby the 
applause of his students, and horrifying his 
orthodox colleagues by his contravention of 
their established custom of teaching nothing 
but what could be well supported by old and 
accepted authorities, irrespective of whether 
or not it was compatible with reason and truth. 

He held at the same time the office of city 
physician, and in that capacity he offered a 
resolution to the City Council of Basel, to the 
effect that the apothecaries of that city should 
be subjected to his supervision, and that he 
should be permitted to examine whether or 
not the compounders of medicine understood 

— 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

their business, and to ascertain whether they 
had a sufficient quantity of pure and genuine 
drugs on hand so that he might prevent them 
from asking exorbitant prices for their goods. 
The consequence of this measure was, as 
might have been expected, that he drew upon 
himself the concentrated hatred of all the 
druggists and apothecaries; and the other 
physicians and professors, jealous of his suc- 
cess in teaching medicine and curing diseases, 
joined in the persecution, under the pretext 
that his appointment as a professor at the 
university had been made without their con- 
sent, and that Paracelsus was a stranger, of 
whom "nobody knew where he came from," 
and furthermore that they did not know 
whether or not he was "a real doctor." But 
perhaps all these annoyances and vilifica- 
tions would have had no serious consequences 
if he had not made the members of the City 
Council his enemies by writing a severe pub- 
lication against a decision which he con- 
sidered very unjust, and which was rendered 
in favor of a certain Canonicus Cornelius of 
Lichtenfels, whom he had saved from death 
after the latter had been given up to die by 
the other physicians, and who had acted very 
ungratefully towards him. The consequence 

[10] 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

of his hasty action was, that he had to leave 
Basel secretly and hurriedly in July, 1528, 
to avoid unpleasant complications. 

After this event Paracelsus resumed his 
strolling life, roaming — as he did in his 
youth — over the country, living in village 
taverns and inns, and traveling from place 
to place. Numerous disciples followed him, 
attracted either by a desire for knowledge or 
by a wish to acquire his art and to use it for 
their own purposes. The most renowned of 
his followers was Johannes Oporinus, who 
for three years served as a secretary and 
famulus to him, and who afterwards became 
a professor of the Greek language, and a well- 
known publisher, book-seller, and printer, at 
Basel. Paracelsus was exceedingly reticent 
in regard to his secrets, and Oporinus after- 
wards spoke very bitterly against him on 
that account, and thereby served his enemies. 
But after the death of Paracelsus he regretted 
his own indiscretion, and expressed great 
veneration for him. 

Paracelsus went to Colmar in 1528, and 
came to Esslingen and Nuremburg in the 
years 1529 and 1530. The "regular phy- 
sicians" of Nuremburg denounced him a 
quack, charlatan, and impostor. To refute 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

their accusations he requested the City Coun- 
cil to put some patients that had been de- 
clared incurable under his care. They sent 
him some cases of elephantiasis, which he 
cured in a short time and without asking any 
fee. Testimonials to that effect may be found 
in the archives of the city of Nuremburg. 

But this success did not change the for- 
tune of Paracelsus, who seemed to be doomed 
to a life of continual wanderings. In 1530 we 
find him at Noerdlingen, Munich, Regens- 
burg, Amberg, and Meran; in 1531 in St. 
Gall, and in 1535 at Zurich. He then went 
to Maehren, Kaernthen, Krain, and Hongary, 
and finally landed in Salzburg, to which 
place he was invited by the Prince Palatine, 
Duke Ernst of Bavaria, who was a great lover 
of the secret arts. In that place Paracelsus 
obtained at last the fruits of his long labors 
and of a wide-spread fame. 

But he was not destined to enjoy a long 
time the rest he so richly deserved, because 
already on the 24th of September, 1541, he 
died after a short sickness (at the age of 
forty -eight years and three days), in a small 
room of the inn to the "White Horse," near 
the quay, and his body was buried in the 
graveyard of St. Sebastian. There is still a 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

mystery in regard to his death, but the 
most recent investigations go to confirm the 
statement made by his contemporaries, that 
Paracelsus during a banquet had been 
treacherously attacked by the hirelings of 
certain physicians who were his enemies, 
and that in consequence of a fall upon a 
rock, a fracture was produced on his skull, 
that after a few days caused his death. A 
German physician, S. Th. von Soemmering, 
examined the skull of Paracelsus, which, on 
account of its peculiar formation, could not 
easily be mistaken, and noticed a fracture 
going through the temporal bone, which, by 
reason of the age and frequent handling of 
that skull, had become enlarged in size so as 
to be easily seen, and that he believes that 
such a fracture could only have been pro- 
duced during the lifetime of Paracelsus, 
because the bones of a solid but old and 
desiccated skull would not be likely to sepa- 
rate in that manner. 

The bones of Paracelsus were exhumed in 
the year 1572, at a time when the church was 
repaired, and re-interred near the back side 
of the wall that encloses the space in front 
of the chapel of St. Philippi Neri, an exten- 
sion of the church of St. Sebastian, where 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

his monument may be seen at the present 
time. The midst of a broken pyramid of 
white marble shows a cavity which contains 
his picture, and above it is a Latin inscrip- 
tion, saying: 

PHILIPPI THEOPHRASTI PARACELSI QUI 
TANTAM ORBIS FAMAM EX AURO CHYMICO 
ADEPTUS EST EFFIGIES ET OSA DONEC 
RURSUS CIRCUMDABITUR PELLE SUA 
JON. CAP. XIX 

Below the portrait are the following words: 

SUB REPARATIONE ECCLESIAE MDCCLXXII 

EX SEPULCHRALI TABE ERUTA HEIC 

LOCATA SUNT 

The base of the monument contains the 
following inscription: 

CONDITUR HIC PHILIPPUS THEOPHRAS- 
TUS INSIGNIS MEDICINAE DOCTOR QUI 
DIRA ILLA VULNERA LEPRAM PODAGRAM 
HYDROPSIN ALIAQUE INSANABILIA COR- 
PORIS CONTAGIA MIRIFICA ARTE SUSTULIT 
ET BONA SUA IN PAUPERES DISTRIBU- 
ENDA LOCANDAQUE HONORAVIT. ANNO 
MDXXXXI. DIE XXIV. SEPTEMBRIS VITAM 
CUM MORTE MUTAVIT 

[14] 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

Below this inscription may be seen the 
coat of arms of Paracelsus, representing a 
beam of silver upon which are ranged three 
black balls, and below are the words: 

PAX VIVIS REQUIES AETERNA SEPULTIS 

A translation of the above inscription into 
German may be seen on a black board on the 
left side of the monument. The two latter 
inscriptions have evidently been taken from 
the original monument, but the one around 
the portrait was added in 1572. 

Thus were the earthly remnants of Para- 
celsus disposed of. 

Paracelsus left very few worldly goods at the 
time of his death, but the inheritance which he 
left in the shape of his writings is rich and im- 
perishable. This extraordinary man — one of 
the most remarkable ones of all times and all 
peoples — found many enthusiastic followers; 
but the number of those who envied and 
therefore hated him was still greater. He had 
many enemies, because he overthrew the cus- 
tomary old-fogy ism of the orthodox physicians 
and speculative philosophers of his age; he 
proclaimed new, and therefore unwelcome, 
ideas; and he defended his mode of thinking in 
a manner that was rather forcible than polite. 

us] 



browning's PARACELSUS 



One-sided culture could see in Paracelsus 
nothing else but an enthusiast, a fanatic, and 
noise-maker; his enthusiastic followers, on 
the other hand, looked upon him as a god and 
a monarch of all mysteries and king of the 
spirits. It was his destiny to be misjudged 
by his friends as well as by his enemies, and 
each side exaggerated his qualities, the one 
his virtues, the other his faults. He was de- 
nounced and vilified by one set of ignora- 
muses, and his qualities extolled by another, 
and the two camps roused each other into a 
frenzy by their inordinate praises and vile 
denunciations, whose exaggerations were evi- 
dent to every one but themselves. Those 
historians who have criticised the character 
of Paracelsus severely, forgot to take into 
consideration the customs and fashions of 
the time in which he lived, the character of 
his surroundings, and his restless wanderings. 
Now, as the battle of contending opinions has 
ceased to rage, we may take a dispassionate 
view of the past and, after studying his 
works and the writings of his critics and 
biographers, we will arrive at the conclu- 
sion that he was one of the greatest and most 
sublime characters of all times. His works 
contain inexhaustible mines of knowledge. 



[16] 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

and an extraordinary amount of germs out 
of which great truths may grow if they are 
attended to by competent cultivators, and a 
great deal that is at present misunderstood 
and rejected will by future inquirers be 
drawn to the light, and be cut into some of 
the noblest blocks in the spiritual Temple of 
Wisdom. 

The writings of Paracelsus are especially 
distinguished by the short and concise man- 
ner in which his thoughts are expressed. 
There is no ambiguity in his expressions, and 
if we follow the roads which he indicated, 
progressing at the same time along the path 
of physical science, we shall find the richest 
of treasures buried at the places that he 
pointed out with his magic wand. 

Paracelsus was a Christian in the true 
meaning of that word, and he always at- 
tempted to support the doctrines he taught 
by citations from the Bible. He asks: 
"What is a philosophy that is not sup- 
ported by spiritual revelation? Moses did 
not attempt to teach physics; he wrote in 
a theological sense calculated to impress the 
feelings and awaken the faith of the simple- 
minded, and perhaps he may not have under- 
stood physics himself. The scientist, unlike 

[17] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

the theologian, does not put any trust in his 
feelings, but believes only in his experiments, 
because physical science deals with phe- 
nomena and not with faith. The Hebrews, 
moreover, did not know much about natural 
science, and as a people they have always 
been more ignorant than others in that re- 
spect." 

"Faith is a luminous star that leads the 
honest seeker into the mysteries of Nature. 
You must seek your point of gravity in God, 
and put your trust into an honest, divine, 
sincere, pure, and strong faith, and cling to 
it with your whole heart, soul, sense, and 
thought, full of love and confidence. If you 
possess such a faith, God will not withhold His 
truth from you, but He will reveal His works 
to you credibly, visibly, and consolingly. 

"Everything that happens takes place 
through the will of the Supreme. Conscience 
is the state which we have received from God, 
in which we should see our own image, and 
according to the dictates of which we should 
act, without attempting to discover reasons 
in the guidance of our life in regard to morals 
and virtues. We should do that which our 
conscience teaches, for no other reason but 
because our conscience teaches it. He who 

[18] 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

does not burn himself will not be burned by 
God, and God provided him with a con- 
science into which he may put his implicit 
trust. To learn from others, to accept the 
opinion of others, to act in a certain manner 
because others are acting in that way, is 
temptation. Therefore faith into the things 
of the earth should be based upon the Holy 
Scripture and upon the teachings of Christ, 
and it will then stand upon a firm basis. 
Therefore we shall put the fundament and 
the corner-stone of our wisdom upon three 
principal points, which are: first. Prayer, or 
a strong desire and aspiration for that which 
is good. It is necessary that we should seek 
and knock, and thereby ask the Omnipotent 
Power within ourselves and remind it of its 
promises and keep it awake, and if we do 
this in the proper form and with a pure and 
sincere heart, we shall receive that for which 
we ask, and find that which we seek, and the 
doors of the Eternal that have been closed 
before us will be opened, and what was hidden 
before our sight will come to light. The 
next point is Faith: not a mere belief in 
something that may or may not be true, but 
a faith that is based upon knowledge, an 
unwavering confidence, a faith that may 

[19] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

move mountains and throw them into the 
ocean, and to which everything is possible, 
as Christ has Himself testified. The third 
point is Imagination. If this power is prop- 
erly kindled in our soul, we will have no 
difficulty to make it harmonize with our 
faith. A person who is sunk into deep 
thought and, so to say, drowned in his own 
soul, is like one who has lost his senses, and 
the world looks upon him as a fool. But in 
the consciousness of the Supreme he is wise, 
and he is, so to say, the confidential friend 
of God, knowing a great deal more of God's 
mysteries than all those who receive their 
superficial learning through the avenues of 
the external senses; because he can reach 
God through his soul, Christ through faith, 
and attract the Holy Ghost through an ex- 
alted imagination. In this way we may grow 
to be like the Apostles, and to fear neither 
death nor prison, neither suffering nor tor- 
ture, neither fatigue nor hunger, nor any- 
thing else." 

But with all his piety Paracelsus was no 
bigot. He was an enemy of hypocrisy, 
ceremonial service, and pious ostentation. 
He says: "If you pray publicly, to what 
purpose will it serve? It will only be the 

[201 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

beginning and the cause of idolatry, and 
therefore it has been prohibited by Christ." 

"Let us depart from all ceremonies, con- 
jurations, consecrations, etc., and all similar 
delusions and put our heart, will, and confi- 
dence solely upon the true rock. We must 
continually knock and remind the God (in 
us) to fulfil His promises. If this is done 
sincerely, without hypocrisy, with a true and 
pious heart, we will then obtain that for 
which we seek. The door will be opened for 
us and that which is mysterious become re- 
vealed to us." {Philosophia Occulta.) 

"Salvation is not attained by fasting and 
lip-prayer, neither by wearing a particular 
kind of clothing, nor by beating one's self. 
Such things are all superstition and the out- 
come of hypocrisy. Christ says: *If you 
wish to pray, do it not publicly; but go into 
thy inner chamber.' To pray publicly is the 
beginning of idolatry. If you pray pub- 
licly, then will the common people see it 
and imitate you, and they will fancy that if 
they will only blab a great deal like you, 
then will they be saved. Thus he looks 
upon you as his example and follows you 
instead of following Christ, who bids him 
to pray in secret." (Liber Philosophioe.) 

\n] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

"God from the beginning of the world has 
created all things holy and pure and they 
need not be consecrated by man. God is 
Himself holy, and all that He made out of 
His own will is holy likewise. It is for us, 
by becoming holy, to recognize the holiness 
of God in external nature." (Philosophia 
Occulta.) During the time of the Reforma- 
tion, when the mental atmosphere was in a 
state of great commotion, when everybody 
contended either for Luther or for the Pope, 
Paracelsus stood above the quarreling parties, 
and rejected all sectarianism, for he said: 
"Among all sects there is none which pos- 
sesses intellectually the true religion. We 
must read the Bible more with our heart 
than with our brains, until at some future 
time the true religion will come into the 
world.'* His sympathies, however, went 
with the liberal Protestants, and he expressed 
himself in regard to the action of Luther as 
follows: "The enemies of Luther are to a 
great extent composed of fanatics, knaves, 
bigots, and rogues. Why do you call me a 
* Medical Luther'? You do not intend to 
honor me by giving me that name, because 
you despise Luther. But I know of no other 
enemies of Luther but those whose kitchen 

[22] 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

prospects are interfered with by his reforms. 
Those whom he causes to suffer in their 
pockets are his enemies. I leave it to Luther 
to defend what he says, and I shall be respon- 
sible for what I may say. Whoever is 
Luther's enemy will deserve my contempt. 
That which you wish to Luther you wish 
also to me: you wish us both to the fire." 

Such were the true characteristics of this 
great man. The accusations brought against 
him by his opponents show that his faults 
have been so grossly exaggerated that the 
very absurdity of the charges brought against 
him renders such statements incredible and 
harmless. He has been represented as a 
drunkard, and this accusation has been based 
upon a passage occurring in a letter which he 
wrote to some students of the University of 
Zurich, and in which he addresses them as 
Combibones optimi. It seems, however, 
more probable that the partnership in drink- 
ing alluded to in this expression was meant 
to refer to the *'wine" of wisdom rather than 
to any more material liquid; moreover, the 
contents of that letter are very serious and 
pathetic, and show no indication of frivolity 
or a love for debauch. It has also been ascer- 
tained that Paracelsus up to his twentieth 

[231 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

year never drank any intoxicating drinks, 
and even if it should be found that he after- 
wards drank wine, such a fact could easily 
be explained by the general custom of these 
times, according to which even the most 
honorable and respected persons (Luther in- 
cluded) were in the habit of "drinking each 
other's health." If we, moreover, take into 
consideration the quantity and quality of his 
works, which were all written within a period 
of time covering fifteen years, we may be 
permitted to conclude that he could not have 
accomplished such a work in a state of that 
continual intoxication in which, according to 
the statement of his enemies, he must have 
remained. "Therefore," says Arnold, in his 
"History of Churches and Heretics," "the re- 
port is disproved by the fact that a man who 
is a glutton and drunkard could not have 
been in possession of such divine gifts." 

Paracelsus says : " God has been so benevo- 
lent as to put before our eyes the things 
which we desire: good wines, beautiful 
women, good food, and other treasures, and 
He also protects in giving us the power to 
abstain, so that we may not become victims 
to intemperance. There is a marriage be- 
tween two bodies: the tangible and the 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

intangible one (the soul), and the soul must 
keep the carnal body temperate and prevent 
it from taking more than its due measure. 
If this is not done, then there will be a state 
of adultery. {Par amir, II.) 

Paracelsus has been accused of vanity and 
boasting, and the fact is, that he was proud 
of his own attributes and accomplishments; 
but he did not glorify his own person, only 
the spirit that exalted his soul. Seeing him- 
self surrounded by ignorance, misjudged and 
misrepresented, but conscious of his own 
strength, he asserted his rights. He main- 
tained that the value of the truths he taught 
would be appreciated in due time, and his 
prophecy has proved to be true. It was this 
consciousness of his superior power that in- 
spired him to exclaim: *'I know that the 
monarchy (of mind) will belong to me, that 
mine will be the honor. I do not praise my- 
self, but Nature praises me for I am born of 
Nature and follow her. She knows me and 
I know her." 

This language is not that of a boaster, but 
rather that of a general who knows that he 
will be victorious, when he writes: "After 
me, ye Avicenna, Galenus, Rhases, Montag- 
nana, and others! you after me, not I after 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

you, ye of Paris, Montpellier, Suevia, Meis- 
sen, and Cologne; ye of Vienna and all that 
come from the countries along the Danube 
and Rhine and from the islands of the ocean ! 
You Italy, you Dalmatia, you Sarmatia, 
Athens, Greece, Arabia, and Israelita! Fol- 
low me! It is not for me to follow you, 
because mine is the monarchy. Come out 
of the night of the mind! The time will 
come when none of you shall remain in his 
dark corner who will not be an object of 
contempt to the world, because I shall be the 
monarch and the monarchy will be mine." 

This is not the language of vanity and self- 
conceit. It is the language either of inspira- 
tion or of folly, because extremes resemble 
each other. Thus a man might speak who 
imagines himself to be superior to others; 
but thus also would he speak who is con- 
scious of being far above the rest and who 
floats in the light of the spirit while those 
below him are groping in the darkness of 
error. Paracelsus was proud of the spirit 
that spoke through him; but personally he 
was modest and self-sacrificing, and he well 
knew that a man would be a useless thing if 
he were not overshadowed by the spirit of 
the Supreme. He says: "Remember that 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

God has put a mark upon us, consisting in 
our shortcomings and diseases, to show to 
us that we have nothing to pride ourselves 
about, and that nothing comes within the 
reach of our full and perfect understanding; 
that we are far from knowing absolute truth, 
and that our own knowledge and power 
amounts to very little indeed." 

Personal vanity and ostentation were not 
the elements to be found in the character of 
Paracelsus — they were the customs of the 
physicians of that age; but it is a daily occur- 
ring fact that he who exposes and denounces 
the faults of others appears to the super- 
ficial observer as boasting of his own superi- 
ority, although no such motive may prompt 
him. And as Paracelsus was not slow to 
criticise the ignorance of the "learned," it 
was necessarily supposed by the vulgar that 
he looked upon himself as more learned than 
all others, and they had not the capacity to 
know whether or not he was justified in such 
an estimate of himself. He was, however, 
far superior in medical skill to all his col- 
leagues, and performed apparently miracu- 
lous cures among many patients that had 
been pronounced incurable by the leading 
doctors — a fact that has been proved by 

[27] 



browning's PARACELSUS 



Erasmus of Rotterdam, a most careful and 
scientific observer. Among such patients 
were not less than eighteen princes, on whom 
the best physicians had tried their arts and 
failed. In his thirty-third year he was al- 
ready an object of admiration for the laity, 
and an object of professional jealousy for 
the physicians. He also incurred the wrath 
of the latter by treating many of the poorer 
classes without pay, while the other phy- 
sicians unrelentingly claimed their fees. The 
most common reward for his labor was in- 
gratitude, and this he earned everywhere, not 
only in the houses of the moderately wealthy, 
but also among the rich; for instance, in the 
house of the Count Philippus of Baden, 
whose case had been given up as hopeless by 
his physicians. Paracelsus cured the Count 
in a short time, who in return showed great 
penuriousness towards him. Moreover, the 
ingratitude of that prince caused great joy 
to the enemies of Paracelsus, and gave them 
a welcome opportunity to ridicule and slan- 
der him more than ever. 

Accusations of a different order are brought 
against him, referring to the bluntness of his 
style of writing, which was not always refined 
or polite. It should, however, be remem- 



[28 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

bered that such a style of speaking and writ- 
ing was universally used at these times, and 
objectionable expressions were adopted by 
all, not excluding Luther, the great Reformer, 
who, in spite of his genius, was a mortal man. 
Paracelsus was a great admirer of Luther, 
and even surpassed him in enthusiasm for 
religious and intellectual freedom. Luther 
seemed to him to be still too conservative. 
He believed that such a gigantic revolution 
in the world of mind could not be accom- 
plished with meekness and condescension, 
but that it required firmness, tenacity, and 
an unbending will. He says of himself: "I 
know that I am a man who does not speak 
to everyone only that which might please 
him, and I am not used to give submissive 
answers to arrogant questions. I know my 
ways and I do not wish to change them; 
neither could I change my nature. I am a 
rough man, born in a rough country; I have 
been brought up in pine-woods, and I may 
have inherited some knots. That which 
seems to me polite and amiable may appear 
unpolished to another, and what seems silk 
in my eyes may be but homespun to you," 

Great abuse has been heaped upon Para- 
celsus by his enemies on account of his rest- 

[29] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

less and roaming way of living. He acquired 
his knowledge, not in the comfortable man- 
ner in which the great majority of scientists 
acquire theirs, but he traveled all over the 
country on foot, and went wherever he ex- 
pected to find something that might be use- 
ful to know. He writes: "I went in search 
of my art, often incurring danger of life. I 
have not been ashamed to learn that which 
seemed useful to me even from vagabonds, 
executioners, and barbers. We know that a 
lover will go a long way to meet the woman 
he adores: how much more will the lover of 
wisdom be tempted to go in search of his 
divine mistress!" 

He says: "The knowledge to which we are 
entitled is not confined within the limits of 
our own country, and does not run after us, 
but waits until we go in search of it. No 
one becomes a master of practical experience 
in his own house, neither will he find a 
teacher of the secrets of Nature in the cor- 
ners of his room. We must seek for knowl- 
edge where we may expect to find it, and 
why should the man be despised who goes in 
search of it? Those who remain at home 
may live more comfortably and grow richer 
than those who wander about; but I neither 

[30] 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

desire to live comfortably, nor do I wish to 
become rich. Happiness is better than 
riches, and happy is he who wanders about, 
possessing nothing that requires his care. 
He who wants to study the book of Nature 
must wander with his feet over its leaves. 
Books are studied by looking at the letters 
which they contain; Nature is studied by 
examining the contents of her treasure-vaults 
in every country. Every part of the world 
represents a page in the book of Nature, and 
all the pages together form the book that 
contains her great revelations." 

So little has Paracelsus been understood by 
the profane, that even to this day he is 
accused of having advocated the very super- 
stitions which his books are intended to 
destroy. Far from advocating the super- 
stitious practises of the star-gazers, he says: 
"There are two Entia (Causes) active in man, 
namely, the Ens Seminis and the Ens Vir- 
tutis"; that is to say, the qualities which 
man's physical constitution has inherited 
from his parents, and the tendencies or in- 
clinations and talents which he has developed 
in a former state of existence — "but the 
planets and stars neither build up his body, 
nor do they endow man with virtues or vices 

__ 



browning's PARACELSUS 



nor with any qualities whatsoever. The 
course of Saturn lengthens or shortens 
nobody's life, and although Nero and Mars 
were of the same kind of temperament, 
nevertheless Nero was not the child of Mars, 
nor Helena the daughter of Venus. If there 
never had been any Moon in the sky, there 
would be nevertheless people who partake 
of her nature. The stars force us to nothing, 
they incline us to nothing; they are free for 
themselves and we are free for ourselves. It 
is said that a wise man rules over the stars; 
but this does not mean that he rules over 
the influences which come from the stars in 
the sky; but that he rules over the powers 
which exist in his own constitution." 

"We cannot live without sunshine and we 
need the influences of the stars as much as we 
need heat and cold, food and water; they 
produce our seasons and ripen our fruits, but 
man's body does not come from the stars, nor 
is his character formed by them, and if there 
never had been any planet on the sky, there 
would be nevertheless some people of a mel- 
ancholy disposition, others of a choleric 
temperament, etc." 

Paracelsus did not read or write much. He 
says that for ten years he never read a book, 



[32] 



PARACELSUS, THE MAN 

and his disciples testify that he dictated his 
works to them without using any memoranda 
or manuscripts. On taking an inventory of 
his goods after his death, a Bible, a Biblical 
Concordance, a Commentary to the Bible, 
and a written book on Medicine, were all the 
books that could be found in his possession. 
Even earlier than Luther he had publicly 
burned a Papal bull, and with it the writings 
of Galen and Avicenna. He says: "Read- 
ing never makes a physician. Medicine is an 
art and requires practical experience. If it 
were sufficient to learn to talk Latin, Greek, 
and Hebrew, to become a good physician, it 
would also be sufficient for one to read Livius 
to become a great commander-in-chief. I 
began to study my art by imagining that 
there was not a single teacher in the world 
capable to teach it to me, but that I had to 
acquire it myself. It was the book of Nature 
written by the finger of God, which I studied 
— not those of the scribblers, for each scribbler 
writes down the rubbish that may be found in 
his head; and who can sift the true from the 
false? My accusers complain that I have not 
entered the temple of knowledge through the 
'legitimate door.' But which one is the truly 
legitimate door.f^ Galenus and Avicenna or 

[33] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Nature? I have entered through the door 
of Nature; her light, and not the lamp of 
an apothecary's shop, has illuminated my 
way." 

Great stress was laid by his accusers upon 
the fact that he wrote the greater part of his 
books and taught his doctrines in the German 
language, and not, as was then customary, in 
Latin. But this was one of his most impor- 
tant acts; because in so doing he produced 
a reformation in science similar to the one 
that Luther produced in the Church. He 
rejected the time-honored use of the Latin 
language, because he believed that the truth 
could as well be expressed in the language of 
the country in which he lived. This daring 
act was the beginning of free thought in 
science, and the old belief in authorities began 
to weaken. It is probable that Paracelsus 
would never have attained his knowledge if 
he had permitted his mind to be fettered 
and imprisoned by the idle formalities that 
were connected with a scientific education 
at that time. 



[34 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 



^yrX LTHOUGH the doctrine of the Mac- 
m^ rocosm and the Microcosm was of 
Jf Y primitive antiquity, and had even 
been last emphasized by Raymond 
of Sabunde, who had not remained unknown 
to Paracelsus, yet it is only since and by 
means of the latter that it was made the cen- 
tral point of the whole of philosophy. He 
designates nature as the sphere of philosophy, 
and hence excludes from the latter all theol- 
ogy. Not as though the two were antagonis- 
tic, or as though theology were subordinated 
to philosophy, but the works of God are 
either works of nature or works of Christ; 
the former are comprehended by philosophy, 
the latter by theology. Accordingly philoso- 
phy speaks as a pagan, and was already a 
possession of the pagans; yet the philosopher 
may be a Christian, for father and son are 
compatible the one with the other. Philoso- 
phy and theology are mutually exclusive, for 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

the instrument of the former is the natural 
light, reason, and itself is a form of knowl- 
edge; theology, on the other hand, is a form 
of faith, meditated by revelation, reading of 
the scriptures, and prayer. Faith surpasses 
the light of nature, but only because it can- 
not exist without natural wisdom, which, 
however, can exist without faith. The latter, 
therefore, is the greater. Philosophy has 
nature for its sole and single object, is only 
apprehended invisible nature, as nature, on 
the other hand, is merely visible, actual 
philosophy. Since philosophy is only the 
science of the world, but the world is partly 
the macrocosm which contains, partly the 
microcosm which is man, the philosophy of 
Paracelsus only contains what we are accus- 
tomed to call cosmology and anthropology, 
only that the two are never separated, and 
some things which concern man, as will 
shortly be seen, lie outside the sphere of 
philosophy. 

As no human work can be rightly appreci- 
ated unless we know for what end it was 
undertaken, so also in the case of creation 
we must inquire after God's "intention." 
It is of a twofold nature: God desires that 
nothing may remain hidden, that everything 

[38] 



PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 

may become visible and revealed; and sec- 
ondly, that everything which He has founded 
and left incomplete should come to com- 
pleteness. Man carries out both purposes, 
by knowing things and by carrying them to- 
wards their destiny by transforming them; 
on that account man is last in creation and 
is God's proper intention, and the world is 
only to be known inasmuch as philosophy 
contemplates man as the world's final aim 
and fruit, and searches in him as the book 
from which nature's secrets may be read. On 
the other hand, as the fruit can only be under- 
stood from the seed, so man can only be 
understood from that which preceded him, 
that is, from the world. This circle cannot 
appear fallacious to Paracelsus, who lays down 
as a fundamental proposition that he only is a 
philosopher who knows one thing in another. 
Moses, too, relates that after all things had 
been created out of nothing, for the creation 
of man, an instrument was necessary. The 
latter, the "limus terrae," is an extract and 
a quintessence of all that was created before 
man, and might just as well be called limus 
mundi, since all creata are contained in it, 
and therefore in man formed from it, and 
can accordingly come out of it. This holds, 

[39] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

not only of cold and fire, but also of the wolf 
nature and the adder nature, and this being 
so, men can with literal accuracy be called 
wolves, etc. Since man is everything, there- 
fore to him, as the center and point of all 
things, nothing is impenetrable. But be- 
sides the earth, the All comprehends the 
heavens also, that is, the constellations or 
the fundamental sidereal or ethereal powers, 
which, themselves invisible, have their "cor- 
pus" in the visible stars. Accordingly the 
limus terrae and man formed from it are of 
a double nature; first the visible, tangible, 
earthly, and secondly the invisible, intangible, 
heavenly, astral body. This latter is usually 
called spiritus by Paracelsus; any one who 
should translate this word by life-principle 
or life-spirit, might found upon the usage 
of Paracelsus, who instead of body and spirit 
often says corpus and life, or also that the 
spiritus is "the life and balsam of all corporal 
things," of which none is created without 
spiritus. Not only do men consist of a body 
sprung from the elements, and the spirit 
descended from the stars, so that they may 
be called children of the marriage of those 
two, but all beings, even those without sense, 
live and are penetrated by the astral spirit; 

[40] 



PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 

but all the rest are only fragments of that 
which man is in completeness. In accord- 
ance with a universal world-law, which Para- 
celsus calls the foundation of his whole 
philosophy, every creature yearns after that 
out of which it has been created, partly to 
maintain itself, for everything eats of its 
own mother and lives on her, partly to return 
to its original, for everything dies and is 
buried in its father. Accordingly both the 
component parts of man attract to them- 
selves that from which they sprung as the 
magnet attracts the iron; to hunger and 
thirst, which induce the body to appropriate 
the elements and transform them into flesh 
and blood, there corresponds in the spirit 
imagination, by means of which it nourishes 
itself on the stars, gains sense and thoughts 
which are its food. Imagination, as the 
peculiar function of the spirit, is of the great- 
est importance in the formation of seed and 
fruit, in the generation and healing of dis- 
eases; it is the means of the illuminatio 
naturalis, makes the spirit capable of specu- 
lation, etc. Hence, as all natural impulses 
have their seat in the earthly body, so all 
arts and all natural wisdom have theirs in 
the sidereal body or life-spirit. They are 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

also similar to one another in that both pass 
away; at death the body goes back to the 
elements, the spirit is absorbed by the stars; 
the latter takes place later than the former, 
hence spirits can appear in the places to 
which they are bound by imagination, but 
they also die through the gradual dis- 
appearance of their thoughts, sense, and 
understanding. 

To these two component parts, which to- 
gether make man an animal, there is now 
added the seat, not of the light of nature, but 
of the eternal reason, the soul which springs 
from God. This is the living breath which, 
when God created Adam, He caused to be 
added to the limus terrae, and. at the genera- 
tion of each individual He causes to be added 
to the seed, the extract of all the elemental 
parts, and which at death, being eternal, 
returns to the eternal. The soul, which is 
essentially distinct from the spirit, and which 
is related to its thoughts as a king to his 
council, has its seat in the heart, with which 
accordingly we ought to love God. It is so 
related to the spirit that the latter may be 
called its body, and itself the spirit's spirit. 
Paracelsus moreover sometimes uses the word 
spiritus in such a wide sense as to include 

[421 



PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 

both the spirit (of life) and the soul. It 
is the result of a confusion between spirit and 
soul when any one shifts to the power of the 
elements or the stars the responsibility of an 
individual's being good or evil. Whether he be 
hot or cold depends on the former, whether 
he be smith or builder on the latter, but 
whether he be good or evil depends on the 
soul alone, which God has left free, and in 
the power of which He has left it to deter- 
mine itself in one direction or another. As 
regards the reasons which have induced God 
thus to leave the soul to freedom, in which, 
if it persists, it is miserable, whilst bliss con- 
sists in entire submission to God, philosophy 
has nothing to say. Indeed, all that con- 
cerns that supernatural essence, the soul, 
is defiled, when considered by the light of 
nature. Through this triplicity of nature, 
man is partly like to, partly surpassed by, 
three other kinds of beings. He is nature, 
spirit, and angel, unites in himself the prop- 
erties into which the beasts, angels, and ele- 
mental spirits (Saganae) are divided. These 
latter, namely, which are named after the 
elements to which they belong. Watermen 
(Nymphs, Undines), Earthmen (Gnomes, 
Pygmies), Airmen (Sylphs, Sylvans, Lemurs), 

[43] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Firemen (Salamanders, Penates), have no 
souls and are therefore often called Inani- 
mata. Only by marriage with human beings 
can they receive souls for themselves and 
their children. As the body has its food in 
the elements, the spirit in the stars, so the 
soul has its food in Christ, who speaks to her 
as the earth to her children: take, eat, this 
is myself. The means of partaking of this 
food is faith, which is so much more power- 
ful and effects so much more than imagina- 
tion, just because the soul is more than 
the spirit. It is on that account frequently 
contrasted as the sacramental with the 
elemental. 

As man by his three component parts 
points to the elemental, the sidereal, and the 
divine ("deal") world, the knowledge of 
these three worlds is the condition of the 
complete knowledge of man. Accordingly, 
philosophy, astronomy, and theology are 
given as the foundations on which the true 
science of medicine rests. But Paracelsus, 
besides that he was himself a physician, had 
the further reason for referring to medicine, 
that in the true physician he saw the ideal 
of a scientific man, so much so that he says 
that of all the arts and faculties, that of the 

[44] 



PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 

physician was dearest to God. Very natu- 
rally so, for the man whose task it is to inves- 
tigate the nature of the highest thing in the 
world and to further its well-being may well 
look down on the rest. Besides the dignity 
of its object, medicine may also pride itself 
on something else: in it, namely, are united 
the two elements which, according to Para- 
celsus, belong to true science-speculation, 
which without experience gives but "vain 
phantasies" and experimentum, which never- 
theless without science, as Hippocrates says, 
is fallax and results in nothing but "experi- 
mentler" (empirics), who deserve no prefer- 
ence to many an old woman and barber : but 
they combine to make a true experientia or a 
plain demonstrative and obvious philosophy. 
Without philosophic, astronomical, and theo- 
logical knowledge the physician is not in 
a position to decide which diseases are of an 
earthly, which of a sidereal origin, and which 
are visitations of God. But as the Theorica 
causae coincides with the Theorica curae, he 
runs the risk of attacking elemental diseases 
with sidereal remedies, or vice versa, or also 
of making attempts at natural healing where 
they are out of place. 

To these demands made of the physician 

[45] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

are attached, as helps to their fulfilment we 
might say, the representations of the three 
sciences mentioned. First, as regards Phi- 
losophy, that "mother of a good physician" 
by it, astronomy being separated from it, it 
is to be understood, the universal science of 
nature, which treats of all creata which 
existed before man. Paracelsus here goes 
back to the final basis of all being, which he 
finds in the "fiat" with which God brings to 
an end His solitary existence, and which may 
accordingly be called the prima materia, or 
to the mysterium magnum, in which all 
things were contained, not essentially or 
qualitatively, but in the mode in which the 
image to be carved out of it is contained in 
the wood. Both names, however, are also 
attributed to the product of the fiat, in 
which it becomes materialized, the seed of all 
things. The name yle, seldom used, and the 
perpetually recurring yliaster or yliastron, as 
a name for this first product of the divine, 
creative power, will not surprise any one 
who thinks on the hyle and hyleachim of 
many Schoolmen. In these, as in a seed- 
vessel (limbus), all things to come are con- 
tained. Since He who uttered the fiat is 
the Triune, also the formless primitive sub- 

[461 



PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 

stance is subject to the universal world-law 
of triplicity; it contains three principles 
which Paracelsus usually calls Salt, Sulphur, 
and Mercury. That instead of these he also 
uses balsamum, resine, and liquor, and his 
express declaration as well, prove, that by 
those terms we are not to understand the 
corporeal substances salt, sulphur, and quick- 
silver, but the primary powers (hence 
"spirits," also materiae primae), which are 
best reflected in our salt, etc. All corporeal 
beings contain these principles, as for in- 
stance what smokes in the wood is mercury, 
what burns, sulphur, what remains in ashes 
is salt, and in man, salt appears in the body, 
sulphur in the soul, mercury in the spirit. 
By sublimation, burning, and analysis of these 
three, and by the fact that they combine in 
different relationships, there arises the mani- 
foldness of things, so that all things are con- 
cealed in everything, one is their concealer, 
the bodily and visible vessel. As it is by 
cutting away the superfluous that the image 
grows out of the wood, so it is by the way 
of separation, Separatio, that the different 
beings arise out of the Yliaster. And indeed 
by such a separation there first arise the 
elements, which four parts of the Yliaster 

_ 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

are often themselves again called the four 
(individual) yliastri. Paracelsus ceaselessly 
contests the peripatetic-scholastic theory, 
according to which the elements are com- 
plexions of the primitive qualities of heat 
and cold, etc. Partly because these quali- 
ties, as accidents, require a substratum, 
partly because each element has but one 
chief quality. Not because they are com- 
plexions, but because they are "mothers" 
of things, are they elements. Moreover, 
what held good of the three primae sub- 
stantiae contained in them holds good also 
of the elements: Elementum aquae is not 
the water which we see, but the invisi- 
ble mother of our water, who brings forth 
this visible, less wet, substance we see — a 
soul, a spirit. In the first separation the 
elements ignis and aer combine in opposition 
to the other two, and so there arises, there 
the heavens, here the "globule" of the 
earth, like the yolk of the egg swimming in 
the white. In the former there are formed, 
from the elementum ignis, the life-giving 
mother of our (destroying) fire, the firmament 
and the stars, including the transparent 
heaven. In the latter again, the wet sepa- 
rates itself from the dry, and sea and land 

[48] 



PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 

arise. Within these four there now arise 
out of the four elements, by means of the 
Vulcanus indwelHng in them, which is not a 
personal spirit, but a virtus, which is the 
power of nature subject to man, individual 
things, with the rise of which many errata 
naturae slip in. (Consider here Aristotle's 
nature, working demonically, but failing 
of its end.) The products of the elements, 
which are not of like kind with their parents 
as are those of composite bodies, but "diver- 
talla," are divided into perceptible, or the 
above-mentioned elemental spirits and the 
different beasts, and imperceptible, such as 
metals which come from water, plants which 
come from the earth, lightning which comes 
from the heavens, rain which comes from the 
air. The place of Vulcanus in the elements 
is taken in each individual thing by the 
"ruler" or "archeus," that is, its individual 
natural power, by which things maintain 
themselves and, especially in the expulsion of 
disease, again establish themselves. The 
earth also has its archeus, who among other 
functions "measures the etnal or mineral 
fire in the mountains, like the alchemists." 
Man is distinguished from all other natural 
beings by the fact that he does not belong to 

[49] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

one element merely, but much rather, seeing 
that he consists of them, all the elements be- 
long to him, and so he does not live in but 
on the earth. Because he is the extract of 
all things, their "quintessence," he is there- 
fore dependent on them, his spirit as well 
as his body dies away without nourishment 
from without. So likewise, he and his cir- 
cumstances can only be known from the 
study of the elements and nature in general, 
and this is a fortunate thing for the sick, for 
otherwise the physician would have to learn 
their condition by experiment on the sick 
themselves, which would be the death of 
many. 

The knowledge of water and earth only 
supplies the letters for a judgment on the 
earthly body of man. A judgment on his 
life proper is conditioned by knowledge of the 
stars, and accordingly Astronomy, the "higher 
part" of philosophy, along with the philoso- 
phy of the elements, is indispensable to the 
physician. The heavenly and the earthly 
world, as they consist of the same primal 
substances, and as one Vulcan works in both, 
ought not to be separated as they usually 
are. The same thing which in heaven exists 
as a star, exists on earth, but as a vegetable, 

[so] 



PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 

and in the water, but there as a metal. To 
him who clearly understands this and there- 
by possesses the "ars signata," who does not 
attribute the same name to different things 
but such as express their individual nature, 
the heavens become a "herbarium spirituale 
sidereum," as he would have a stella Arte- 
misiae, Melissae, etc. Our present knowl- 
edge extends so far as to say that there must 
be far more metals than the seven, which 
are named on account of the number of the 
planets. Naturally, what holds good of 
water and earth must have its application 
to man, their quintessence: there is nothing 
in the heavens which is not in him. That 
which is there Mars, and in the earth, iron, 
is in man, gall. This point is important for 
the diagnosis of disease and the choice of a 
remedy. The two belong together, for where 
we have the cause of the disease, there we 
must seek the basis of cure. The aphorism 
contraria contrariis does not mean that cold 
is to be overcome by heat, but that sick- 
ness is to be overcome by health, the harm- 
ful effect of a principle by its beneficent 
effect. Here also, if diseases were to be 
designated according to their nature, we 
would have to give up the old names, and 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

speak of martial and mercurial diseases, for 
the stars are the principia morboriim. Cer- 
tainly, in order to be able to do so, we 
must not isolate man, but regard him from 
the standpoint of the astronomer and astrol- 
ogist, must recognize in the wind-storm the 
accelerated pulse of nature, in the feverish 
pulse of a sick man we must recognize an 
inner storm, in the origin of stone in the 
bladder the same process which gives rise 
to thunder, etc. As, on the one hand, this 
knowledge will place the physician in a po- 
sition not to treat sidereal illnesses, like, e.g., 
the plague, in which, just because it is such, 
imagination plays so important a part, as if 
they were the common elemental sort, so, on 
the other hand, it will free him from the proud 
folly of thinking that it is he who heals the 
sick. Only nature does so, and his task is 
to put away what hinders her from doing 
so, to protect her from hostile foes. Another 
expression for the same assertion is, that it is 
the physician's duty to give opportunity to 
the archeus, that is, the particular natural 
force, to exercise its healing influence. As this 
takes place by means of the remedy which 
is put into the stomach, the stomach is often 
designated as the special seat of the archeus. 

[52] 



PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 

Both the higher and the lower part of phi- 
losophy point to the basis of all things, hence 
Paracelsus calls the light of nature the be- 
ginning of Theology; he who has a correct 
judgment in natural things will not "lightly 
ponder" Christ and the Holy Scriptures. 
Because he seriously believes that philoso- 
phy must rest on theology as its corner-stone, 
and further, because he regards Scripture as 
the sole source of theology, he studied the 
latter with great zeal. (Morhof claims to 
have seen exegetical commentaries on Scrip- 
ture in Paracelsus' own hand.) But since he 
at the same time always contrasts theology 
with knowledge, there is no need of going into 
his theology further here. Reference must 
be made to one subject, only because it is 
closely inter-connected with his relation to 
the scholastic philosophy : his attitude to the 
Roman Catholic Church. When it is seen 
that he names Wicklif along with Albert and 
Lactantius among those who are predestined 
to doctrine, that he entertains the highest 
admiration for Zwingli, that he derides the 
opponents of Luther, speaks disrespectfully 
of the Pope, frequently expresses himself 
against the mass, worship of saints, and pil- 
grimages, one may be tempted to count him 

["53] 



browning's PARACELSUS 



quite as one of the innovators of his time. 
And yet it would be incorrect to do so, for 
against it there is his Mariolatry, his assur- 
ance that he would have the useless fools 
away from the mass, not the saints, etc. His 
attitude might be compared with that of 
Erasmus, whom moreover he regarded the 
most highly of all the scholars of his time; 
with more reason perhaps with those of the 
mystics treated of above, who, without leav- 
ing the Church of Rome, neglected those 
points of her doctrine which were afterwards 
attacked by the reformers. 

If medicine were mere science and theory, 
it would rest upon the three sciences just 
characterized. But now Paracelsus lays the 
greatest weight on the fact that it is an art 
and praxis. He must therefore supply her 
with directions and a technique as the fourth 
pillar on which she rests. This is accordingly 
afforded by Alchemy, by which is properly to 
be understood every art of bringing about 
transformations, so that the baker who 
makes bread out of corn, the wine-presser 
who makes wine out of grapes, is thereby an 
alchemist, as is the archeus who changes food 
into flesh and blood. With these changes 
of things according to their character, there 



[54] 



PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 

is associated the alchemist in the nar- 
rower sense, that is the chemist, who refines, 
ennobles, and heals things, but just on that 
account is the opposite of a magician. The 
purest and most refined in everything is its 
quintessence or (since this word should only 
be used where an extract, like the limus 
terrae, contains everything from which it 
was extracted, without involving that any- 
thing is withdrawn from the residuum), to 
speak more exactly, its arcanum, its tincture 
or elixir. As in the latter the thing is con- 
tained with its force and quality without 
foreign admixture, it is naturally the chief 
task of medical alchemy to prepare quintes- 
sences, arcana or tinctures. They are drawn 
from metals, but also from things which 
have life, from plants, and the more living 
the thing is, the stronger the quintessence. 
If it were possible to draw such an extract 
from man without his death, that would give 
the absolute cure. The "mummy" is an 
approximation to it, but as it is mostly got 
from the bodies of those who have died of dis- 
ease, in the most favorable case from those 
who have been executed, and therefore always 
from the dead, it is not to be compared with 
the former. As examples of such arcana 

_ 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

after which we have to strive, Paracelsus cites 
prima materia, lapis philosophorum, mercu- 
rius vitae, and tinctura, for the attainment 
of which he gives the methods. Here, as in 
general with Paracelsus, it is hard to tell 
where self-deception ceases and charlatanry 
begins. He cannot be acquitted of either: 
on the contrary, neither here nor in the case 
of the famous recipe for the production of 
the homunculus, is it possible to think of an 
ironical jest. That in all his alchemistic 
works he demands that the stars and their 
constellations should be observed, that the 
sun's crop and fallow season, that is summer 
and winter, should be distinguished, is a 
necessary consequence of the interdependence 
of all things which he asserts. Amid all the 
assertions which appear so fantastic, he is 
never tired of warning his readers against 
fantasies, and of demanding that nature her- 
self should be allowed to point out the way. 
But he not only regards it as such guidance 
that an accidental experimentum teaches 
how an herb has once operated, but also 
when nature promises a certain definite effect 
by means of the form of a plant taken as a 
signature; and finally, when from the fact 
that a beast can feed on, that is draw to itself, 



PHILOSOPHY OF PARACELSUS 

that which is poison to us, we draw the in- 
ference that this poison will draw away, that 
is to itself, our wounds, we follow not our own 
conceit but nature. He is entirely in earnest 
that our knowledge is only the self -revelation 
of nature, that our knowledge is but listen- 
ing to her; and that he heard a great deal 
from her is proved by his fortunate cures, and 
by the fact that many of his fundamental 
principles have maintained themselves to 
this day. 



[57] 



NOTE 



NOTE 



PARACELSUS was written by Browning when he 
was twenty-three years of age. It was begun 
in the late autumn of 1834, and published in 
the summer of the following year. 
In the earlier edition of this, his first acknowledged 
work (which he dedicated to his friend Count Amedee 
de Ripert-Monclar, who suggested the subject to the 
poet), this interesting and explanatory preface was 
given: "I am anxious that the reader should not, at 
the very outset, — mistaking my performance for one 
of a class with which it has nothing in common, — 
judge it by principles on which it was never moulded, and 
subject it to a standard to which it was never meant 
to conform. I therefore anticipate his discovery, that 
it is an attempt, probably more novel than happy, to 
reverse the method usually adopted by writers whose 
aim it is to set forth any phenomena of the mind or the 
passions, by the operation of persons and events; 
and that, instead of having recourse to an external 
machinery of incidents to create and evolve the crisis 
I desire to produce, I have ventured to display some- 
what minutely the mood itself in its rise and progress, 
and have suffered the agency by which it is influenced 
and determined, to be generally discernible in its effects 
alone, and subordinate throughout, if not altogether 
excluded; and this for a reason. I have endeavored 
to write a poem, not a drama: the canons of the drama 



[61 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

are well known, and I cannot but think that inasmuch 
as they have immediate regard to stage representation, 
the peculiar advantages they hold out are really such 
only so long as the purpose for which they were at 
first instituted is kept in view. I do not very well 
understand what is called a Dramatic Poem, wherein 
all those restrictions only submitted to on account of 
compensating good in the original scheme are scrupu- 
lously retained, as though for some special fitness in 
themselves — and all new facilities placed at an author's 
disposal by the vehicle he selects, as pertinaciously 
rejected. It is certain, however, that a work like mine 
depends on the intelligence and sympathy of the reader 
for its success, — indeed, were my scenes stars, it must 
be his cooperating fancy which, supplying all chasms, 
shall collect the scattered lights into one constellation, 
a Lyre or a Crown. I trust for his indulgence towards 
a poem which had not been imagined six months ago; 
and that even should he think slightingly of the present 
(an experiment I am in no case likely to repeat), he 
w\\\ not be prejudiced against other productions which 
may follow in a more popular, and perhaps less diffi- 
cult form." 

From the last paragraph of this note it might fairly 
be inferred that Browning wished to please generally, 
and that he was aware of the difficulty of the popular- 
ization of poetry written on similar lines to Paracelsus. 

In choosing this subject for his first mature poem. 
Browning was guided first of all by his intense sympa- 
thy with the scientific spirit. Realizing as he did, long 
before the scientific minds of our time, Paracelsus' true 
worth, and recognizing the value of the noble work 
done for mankind by him. Browning set himself the 
glorious task of restoring to his proper place in the 
scientific world this great benefactor of humanity. 

Paracelsus' name had been covered with infamy by 

[621 



NOTE 



his enemies and biographers. Browning thrust aside 
all pettiness of the physical, and laid bare to us the soul 
of this great mystic. The mysticism associated with 
the name of Paracelsus was probably another reason 
for the choice of this subject. Browning was fond of 
the mystical, and is acknowledged to be its subtlest 
interpreter in the English language. 

The poem, in five scenes, is in form a dialogue be- 
tween Paracelsus and his friend Festus and his wife 
Michal in the first scene, Aprile, an Italian poet, in the 
second, and Festus only in the remaining scenes. 
Through the personal media of these three incidental 
characters, the vicissitudes of Paracelsus are brought 
out. His career is traced from its noble outset at 
Wiirzburg to its inglorious end in a hospital at Salzburg. 
While these minor characters have little bearing on the 
external action of the poem, they have all a distinct 
individuality. Festus, Paracelsus' friend and adviser, is 
a man of simple nature. His devotion to Paracelsus, 
and his understanding and toleration of that great 
restless spirit, make him an impressive and lasting 
type. Michal is interesting as Browning's first sketch 
of a woman — Pauline of course exists only in the 
abstract. The portrait of gentleness and tenderness 
that Browning paints for us in this character, once seen, 
will always be remembered. 

Aprile is a type of the poet's own poetical ideal — a 
type of the artist, a soul immoderately possessed with 
the desire to love as Paracelsus was with the desire 
to know. 

Paracelsus, though written in dialogue, was not in- 
tended for a drama, as Browning stated in his note of 
preface to the first edition. It might be classed as 
epical rather than dramatic. It has been justly praised 
as a serious historical study of the great German sci- 
entist and mystic, and again for its philosophical ele- 



[63] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

ment. Browning says, "I have endeavored to write a 
poem," and it is from this its poetical side that it is 
most important. 

WiUiam Sharp in his "Life of Robert Browning" 
says, *'When we read certain portions of 'Paracelsus' 
and the lovely lyrics interspersed in it, it is difficult 
not to think of the poet as sometimes, in later life, 
stooping like the mariner in Roscoe's beautiful sonnet, 
striving to reclaim 'some loved lost echo from the 
fleeting strand.' But it is the fleeting shore of ex- 
quisite art, not of the far-reaching shadowy capes and 
promontories of the 'Poetic Land.'" 



64 



PARACELSUS, THE POEM 



ROBERT BROWNING 

Born, May 7, 1812 
Died, December 12, 1889 



PARACELSUS 



PERSONS 

AuREOLUS Paracelsus 

Festus and Michal, his friends 

Aprile, an Italian Poet 

I. PARACELSUS ASPIRES 

Scene. — Wurzhurg — a garden in the environs. 1512 

Festus, Paracelsus, Michal 

Par. Come close to me, dear friends; still closer; 
thus! 
Close to the heart which, though long time roll by 
Ere it again beat quicker, pressed to yours. 
As now it beats — perchance a long, long time — 
At least henceforth your memories shall make 
Quiet and fragrant as befits their home. 
Nor shall my memory want a home in yours — 
Alas, that it requires too well such free 
Forgiving love as shall embalm it there! 
For if you would remember me aright — 
As I was born to be — you must forget 
All fitful, strange, and moody waywardness 
Which e'er confused my better spirit, to dwell 
Only on moments such as these, dear friends! 
— My heart no truer, but my words and ways 



[67 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

More true to it: as Michal, some months hence, 
Will say, "this autumn was a pleasant time," 
For some few sunny days; and overlook 
Its bleak wind, hankering after pining leaves. 
Autumn would fain be sunny — I would look 
Liker my nature's truth; and both are frail. 
And both beloved for all their frailty! 

Mich. Aureole ! 

Par. Drop by drop ! — she is weeping like a child ! 
Not so! I am content — more than content — 
Nay, Autumn wins you best by this its mute 
Appeal to sympathy for its decay! 
Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the less 
Your stained and drooping vines their grapes bow 

down. 
Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit. 
That apple-tree with a rare after-birth 
Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among! 
Then for the winds — what wind that ever raved 
Shall vex that ash that overlooks you both, 
So proud it wears its berries? Ah! at length. 
The old smile meet for her, the lady of this 
Sequestered nest! This kingdom, limited 
Alone by one old populous green wall. 
Tenanted by the ever-busy flies. 
Gray crickets, and shy lizards, and quick spiders. 
Each family of the silver-threaded moss — 
Which, look through, near, this way, and it appears 
A stubble-field, or a cane-brake — a marsh 
Of bulrush whitening in the sun: laugh now! 
Fancy the crickets, each one in his house. 
Looking out, wondering at the world — or best, 
Yon painted snail, with his gay shell of dew. 
Traveling to see the glossy balls high up 
Hung by the caterpillar, like gold lamps! 

Mich. In truth we have lived carelessly and well! 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Par. And shall, my perfect pair — each, trust me, 
born 
For the other; nay, your very hair, when mixed. 
Is of one hue. For where save in this nook 
Shall you two walk, when I am far away. 
And wish me prosperous fortune? Stay! . . . Whene'er 
That plant shall wave its tangles lightly and softly, 
As a queen's languid and imperial arm 
Which scatters crowns among her lovers, you 
Shall be reminded to predict to me 
Some great success! Ah, see! the sun sinks broad 
Behind St. Saviour's: wholly gone, at last! 

Fest. Now, Aureole, stay those wandering eyes 
awhile ! 
You are ours to-night at least; and while you spoke 
Of Michal and her tears, the thought came back 
That none could leave what he so seemed to love: 
But that last look destroys my dream — that look! 
As if, where'er you gazed, there stood a star! 
How far was Wiirzburg, with its church and spire. 
And garden-walls, and all things they contain. 
From that look's far alighting.? 

Far. I but spoke 

And looked alike from simple joy, to see 
The beings I love best, shut in so well 
From all rude chances like to be my lot. 
That, when afar, my weary spirit, — disposed 
To lose awhile its care in soothing thoughts 
Of them, their pleasant features, looks, and words, — 
Need never hesitate, nor apprehend 
Encroaching trouble may have reached them too, 
Nor have recourse to Fancy's busy aid 
To fashion even a wish in their behalf 
Beyond what they possess already here; 
But, unobstructed, may at once forget 
Itself in them, assured how well they are. 

[6d\ 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Beside, this Festus knows, he thinks me one 

Whom quiet and its charms attract in vain. 

One scarce aware of all the joys I quit, 

Too fiU'd with airy hopes to make account 

Of soft delights which free hearts garner up: 

Whereas, behold how much our sense of all 

That's beauteous proves alike! W^hen Festus learns 

That every common pleasure of the world 

Affects me as himself; that I have just 

As varied appetites for joy derived 

From common things; a stake in life, in short. 

Like his; a stake which rash pursuit of aims 

That life affords not, would as soon destroy; — 

He may convince himself, that, this in view, 

I shall act well advised: and last, because. 

Though heaven and earth, and all things, were at 

stake. 
Sweet Michal must not weep, our parting eve! 

Fest. True: and the even is deepening, and we sit 
As little anxious to begin our talk 
As though to-morrow I could open it 
As we paced arm in arm the cheerful town 
At sun-dawn; and continue it by fits 
(Old Tritheim busied with his class the while) 
In that dim chamber where the noon-streaks peer 
Half frightened by the awful tomes around; 
And here at home unbosom all the rest 
From even-blush to midnight; but, to-morrow! . . . 
Have I full leave to tell my inmost mind? 
We two were brothers, and henceforth the world 
Will rise between us: — all my freest mind? 
'Tis the last night, dear Aureole! 

Par. Oh, say on ! 

Devise some test of love — some arduous feat 
To be performed for you — say on ! If night 
Be spent the while, the better! Recall how oft 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

My wondrous plans, and dreams, and hopes, and fears. 

Have — never wearied you . . . oh, no! . . . as I 

Recall, and never vividly as now. 

Your true affection, born when Einsiedeln 

And its green hills were all the world to us. 

And still increasing to this night, which ends 

My further stay at Wiirzburg . . . Oh, one day 

You shall be very proud! Say on, dear friends! 

Fest. In truth? 'Tis for my proper peace, indeed. 
Rather than yours; for vain all projects seem 
To stay your course: I said my latest hope 
Is fading even now. A story tells 
Of some far embassy despatched to buy 
The favor of an eastern king, and how 
The gifts they offered proved but dazzling dust 
Shed from the ore-beds native to his clime: 
Just so, the value of repose and love, 
I meant should tempt you, better far than I 
You seem to comprehend — and yet desist 
No whit from projects where repose nor love 
Have part. 

Par. Once more.? Alas! as I forbode! 

Fest. A solitary briar the bank puts forth 
To save our swan's nest floating out to sea. 

Par. Dear Festus, hear me. What is it you wish? 
That I should lay aside my heart's pursuit. 
Abandon the sole ends for which I live. 
Reject God's great commission — and so die! 
You bid me listen for your true love's sake: 
Yet how has grown that love? Even in a long 
And patent cherishing of the selfsame spirit 
It now would quell; as though a mother hoped 
To stay the lusty manhood of the child 
Once weak upon her knees. I was not born 
Informed and fearless from the first, but shrank 
From aught which marked me out apart from men: 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

I would have lived their life, and died their death. 

Lost in their ranks, eluding destiny: 

But you first guided me through doubt and fear. 

Taught me to know mankind and know myself; 

And now that I am strong and full of hope. 

That, from my soul, I can reject all aims 

Save those your earnest words made plain to me; 

Now, that I touch the brink of my design, 

When I would have a triumph in their eyes, 

A glad cheer in their voices — Michal weeps. 

And Festus ponders gravely! 

Fest. When you deign 

To hear my purpose . . . 

Par. Hear it? I can say 

Beforehand all this evening's conference! 
*Tis this way, Michal, that he uses: first, 
Or he declares, or I, the leading points 
Of our best scheme of life, what is man's end. 
And what God's will — no two faiths e'er agreed 
As his with mine: next, each of us allows 
Faith should be acted on as best we may: 
Accordingly, I venture to submit 
A plan, in lack of better, for pursuing 
The path which God's will seems to authorize: 
Well — he discerns much good in it, avows 
This motive worthy, that hope plausible, 
A danger here, to be avoided — there. 
An oversight to be repaired: at last 
Our two minds go together — all the good 
Approved by him, I gladly recognize; 
All he counts bad, I thankfully discard; 
And nought forbids my looking up at last 
For some stray comfort in his cautious brow — 
When, lo! I learn that, spite of all, there lurks 
Some innate and inexplicable germ 
Of failure in my schemes; so that at last 

[72] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

It all amounts to this — the sovereign proof 
That we devote ourselves to God, is seen 
In living just as though there were no God: 
A life which, prompted by the sad and blind 
Lusts of the world, Festus abhors the most — 
But which these tenets sanctify at once; 
Though to less subtle wits it seems the same. 
Consider it how they may. 

Mich. Is it so, Festus? 

He speaks so calmly and kindly — is it so? 

Par. Reject those glorious visions of God's love 
And man's design; laugh loud that God should send 
Vast longings to direct us; say how soon 
Power satiates these, or lust, or gold; I know 
The world's cry well, and how to answer it! 
But this ambiguous warfare . . . 

Fest. . . . Wearies so 

That you will grant no last leave to your friend 
To urge it? — for his sake, not yours? I wish 
To send my soul in good hopes after you; 
Never to sorrow that uncertain words, 
Erringly apprehended — a new creed, 
111 understood — begot rash trust in you. 
And shared in your undoing. 

Par. Choose your side: 

Hold or renounce: but meanwhile blame me not 
Because I dare to act on your own views. 
Nor shrink when they point onward, nor espy 
A peril where they most ensure success. 

Fest. Prove that to me — but that! Prove you abide 
Within their warrant, nor presumptuous boast 
God's labor laid on you; prove, all you covet 
A mortal may expect; and, most of all. 
Prove the strange course you now affect, will lead 
To^^its attainment — and I bid you speed. 
Nay, count the minutes till you venture forth! 

[731 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

You smile; but I had gathered from slow thought — 
Much musing on the fortunes of my friend — 
Matter I deemed could not be urged in vain: 
But it all leaves me at my need: in shreds 
And fragments I must venture what remains. 

Mich. Ask at once, Festus, wherefore he should 
scorn . . . 

Fest. Stay, Michal: Aureole, I speak guardedly 
And gravely, knowing well, whate'er your error. 
This is no ill-considered choice of yours — 
No sudden fancy of an ardent boy. 
Not from your own confiding words alone 
Am I aware your passionate heart long since 
Gave birth to, nourished, and at length matures 
This scheme. I will not speak of Einsiedeln, 
Where I was born your elder by some years 
Only to watch you fully from the first: 
In all beside, our mutual tasks were fixed 
Even then — 'twas mine to have you in my view 
As you had your own soul and those intents 
Which filled it when, to crown your dearest wish. 
With a tumultuous heart, you left with me 
Our childhood's home to join the favored few 
Whom, here at Wiirzburg, Tritheim deigns to teach 
A portion of his lore: and not the best 
Of those so favored, whom you now despise, 
Came earnest as you came; resolved, like you. 
To grasp all, and retain all, and deserve 
By patient toil a wide renown like his. 
And this new ardor which supplants the old, 
I watched, too; 'twas significant and strange. 
In one matched to his soul's content at length 
With rivals in the search for Wisdom's prize. 
To see the sudden pause, the total change; 
From contest, the transition to repose — 
From pressing onward as his fellows pressed, 

[74] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

To a blank idleness; yet most unlike 

The dull stagnation of a soul, content, 

Once foiled, to leave betimes a thriveless quest. 

That careless bearing, free from all pretense 

Even of contempt for what it ceased to seek — 

Smiling humility, praising much, yet waiving 

What it professed to praise — though not so well 

Maintained but that rare outbreaks, fierce as brief. 

Revealed the hidden scorn, as quickly curbed — 

That ostentatious show of past defeat. 

That ready acquiescence in contempt, 

I deemed no other than the letting go 

His shivered sword, of one about to spring 

Upon his foe's throat; but it was not thus: 

Not that way looked your brooding purpose then. 

For after-signs disclosed, what you confirmed. 

That you prepared to task to the uttermost 

Your strength, in furtherance of a certain aim. 

Which — while it bore the name your rivals gave 

Their own most puny efforts — was so vast 

In scope that it included their best flights. 

Combined them, and desired to gain one prize 

In place of many, — the secret of the world, 

Of man, and man's true purpose, path, and fate: 

— That you, not nursing as a mere vague dream 

This purpose, with the sages of the Past, 

Have struck upon a way to this, if all 

You trust be true, which following, heart and soul. 

You, if a man may, dare aspire to know: 

And that this aim shall differ from a host 

Of aims alike in character and kind. 

Mostly in this, — to seek its own reward 

In itself only, not an alien end 

To blend therewith; no hope, nor fear, nor joy, 

Nor woe, to elsewhere move you, but this pure 

Devotion to sustain you or betray: 

[tT] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Thus you aspire. 

Par. You shall not state it thus: 

I should not differ from the dreamy crew 
You speak of. I profess no other share 
In the selection of my lot, than this, 
A ready answer to the will of God 
Who summons me to be his organ: all 
Whose innate strength supports them shall succeed 
No better than your sages. 

Fest. Such the aim, then, 

God sets before you; and 'tis doubtless need 
That he appoint no less the way of praise 
Than the desire to praise; for, though I hold 
With you, the setting forth such praise to be 
The natural end and service of a man. 
And think such praise is best attained when man 
Attains the general welfare of his kind — 
Yet, this, the end, is not the instrument. 
Presume not to serve God apart from such 
Appointed channel as He wills shall gather 
Imperfect tributes — for that sole obedience 
Valued, perchance. He seeks not that his altars 
Blaze — careless how, so that they do but blaze. 
Suppose this, then; that God selected you 
To KNOW (heed well your answers, for my faith 
Shall meet implicitly what they affirm) 
I cannot think you dare annex to such 
Selection aught beyond a steadfast will. 
An intense hope, nor let your gifts create 
Scorn or neglect of ordinary means 
Conducive to success — make destiny 
Dispense with man's endeavor. Now dare you search 
Your inmost heart, and candidly avow 
Whether you have not rather wild desire 
For this distinction, than security 
Of its existence; whether you discern 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

The path to the fulfilment of your purpose 
Clear as that purpose — and again, that purpose 
Clear as your yearning to be singled out 
For its pursuer. Dare you answer this? 

Par. {After a pause.) No, I have nought to fear! 
Who will may know 
The secret 'st workings of my soul. What though 
It be so? — if indeed the strong desire 
Eclipse the aim in me? — if splendor break 
Upon the outset of my path alone. 
And duskest shade succeed? What fairer seal 
Shall I require to my authentic mission 
Than this fierce energy — this instinct striving 
Because its nature is to strive? — enticed 
By the security of no broad course. 
With no success forever in its eyes! 
How know I else such glorious fate my own, 
But in the restless irresistible force 
That works within me? Is it for human will 
To institute such impulses? — still less. 
To disregard their promptings? What should I 
Do, kept among you all; your loves, your cares. 
Your life — all to be mine? Be sure that God 
Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart! 
Ask the gier-eagle why she stoops at once 
Into the vast and unexplored abyss. 
What full-grown power informs her from the first, 
Why she not marvels, strenuously beating 
The silent boundless regions of the sky! 
Be sure they sleep not whom God needs! Nor fear 
Their holding light his charge, when every hour 
That finds that charge delayed, is a new death. 
This for the faith in which I trust; and hence 
I can abjure so well the idle arts 

These pedants strive to learn and teach; Black Arts, 
Great Works, the Secret and Sublime, forsooth — 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Let others prize: too intimate a tie 

Connects me with our God! A sullen fiend 

To do my bidding, fallen and hateful sprites 

To help me — what are these, at best, beside 

God helping, God directing everywhere, 

So that the earth shall yield her secrets up, 

And every object shall be charged to strike, 

Teach, gratify, her master God appoints? 

And I am young, my Festus, happy and free! 

I can devote myself; I have a life 

To give; I, singled out for this, the One! 

Think, think; the wide east, where old Wisdom sprung; 

The bright south, where she dwelt; the hopeful north. 

All are passed o'er — it lights on me! 'Tis time 

New hopes should animate the world, new light 

Should dawn from new revealings to a race 

Weighed down so long, forgotten so long; so shall 

The heaven reserved for us, at last receive 

Creatures whom no unwonted splendors blind, 

But ardent to confront the unclouded blaze 

Whose beams not seldom blest their pilgrimage. 

Not seldom glorified their life below. 

Fest. My words have their old fate and make faint 
stand 
Against your glowing periods. Call this, truth — 
Why not pursue it in a fast retreat. 
Some one of Learning's many palaces. 
After approved example; seeking there 
Calm converse with the great dead, soul to soul, 
Who laid up treasure with the like intent? 
— So lift yourself into their airy place. 
And fill out full their unfulfilled careers. 
Unraveling the knots their baffled skill 
Pronounced inextricable, true! — but left 
Far less confused? A fresh eye, a fresh hand, 
Might do much at their vigor's waning-point; 

TtsI 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Succeeding with new-breathed and earnest force. 

As at old games a runner snatched the torch 

From runner still: this way success might be. 

But you have coupled with your enterprise 

An arbitrary self -repugnant scheme 

Of seeking it in strange and untried paths. 

What books are in the desert? writes the sea 

The secret of her yearning in vast caves 

Where yours will fall the first of human feet? 

Has Wisdom sate there and recorded aught 

You press to read? Why turn aside from her 

To visit, where her vesture never glanced, 

Now — solitudes consigned to barrenness 

By God's decree, which who shall dare impugn? 

Now — ruins where she paused but would not stay. 

Old ravaged cities that, renouncing her, 

She called an endless curse on, so it came — 

Or, worst of all, now — men you visit, men, 

Ignoblest troops that never heard her voice. 

Or hate it, men without one gift from Rome 

Or Athens, — these shall Aureole's teachers be! 

Rejecting past example, practice, precept. 

Aidless 'mid these he thinks to stand alone: 

Thick like a glory round the Stagyrite 

Your rivals throng, the sages: here stand you! 

Whate'er you may protest, knowledge is not 

Paramount in your love; or for her sake 

You would collect all help from every source — 

Rival or helper, friend, foe, all would merge 

In the broad class of those who showed her haunts. 

And those who showed them not. 

Par. What shall I say? 

Festus, from childhood I have been possessed 
By a fire — by a true fire, or faint or fierce. 
As from without some master, so it seemed. 
Repressed or urged its current: this but ill 

[79] 



browning's PARACELSUS 



Expresses what I would convey — but rather 

I will believe an angel ruled me thus, 

Than that my soul's own workings, own high nature. 

So became manifest. I knew not then 

What whispered in the evening, and spoke out 

At midnight. If some mortal, born too soon. 

Were laid away in some great trance — the ages 

Coming and going all the while — till dawned 

His true time's advent, and could then record 

The words they spoke who kept watch by his bed, — 

Then I might tell more of the breath so light 

Upon my eyelids, and the fingers warm 

Among my hair. Youth is confused; yet never 

So dull was I but, when that spirit passed, 

I turned to him, scarce consciously, as turns 

A water-snake when fairies cross his sleep. 

And having this within me and about me 

While Einsiedeln, its mountains, lakes, and woods 

Confined me — what oppressive joy was mine 

When life grew plain, and I first viewed the thronged, 

The ever-moving concourse of mankind! 

Believe that ere I joined them — ere I knew 

The purpose of the pageant, or the place 

Consigned to me within its ranks — while yet 

Wonder was freshest and delight most pure — 

'Twas then that least supportable appeared 

A station with the brightest of the crowd, 

A portion with the proudest of them all! 

And from the tumult in my breast, this only 

Could I collect — that I must thenceforth die. 

Or elevate myself far, far above 

The gorgeous spectacle. I seemed to long 

At once to trample on — yet save mankind — 

To make some unexampled sacrifice 

In their behalf — to wring some wondrous good 

I'rom heaven or earth for them — to perish, winning 



80] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Eternal weal in the act: as who should dare 
Pluck out the angry thunder from its cloud, 
That, all its gathered flame discharged on him. 
No storm might threaten summer's azure sleep: 
Yet never to be mixed with men so much 
As to have part even in my own work — share 
In my own largess. Once the feat achieved, 
I would withdraw from their officious praise. 
Would gently put aside their profuse thanks: 
Like some knight traversing a wilderness, 
Who, on his way, may chance to free a tribe 
Of desert-people from their dragon-foe; 
When all the swarthy race press round to kiss 
His feet, and choose him for their king, and yield 
Their poor tents, pitched among the sand-hills, for 
His realm; and he points, smiling, to his scarf. 
Heavy with riveled gold, his burgonet. 
Gay set with twinkling stones — and to the east. 
Where these must be displayed! 

Fest. Good: let us hear 

No more about your nature, "which first shrank 
From all that marked you out apart from men!" 

Par. I touch on that: these words but analyze 
That first mad impulse — 'twas as brief as fond; 
For as I gazed again upon the show, 
I soon distinguished here and there a shape 
Palm-wreathed and radiant, forehead and full eye. 
Well pleased was I their state should thus at once 
Interpret my own thoughts: — "Behold the clue 
To all," I rashly said, "and what I pine 
To do, these have accomplished: we are peers! 
They know, and therefore rule: I, too, will know!" 
You were beside me, Festus, as you say; 
You saw me plunge in their pursuits whom Fame 
Is lavish to attest the lords of mind; 
Not pausing to make sure the prize in view 

[811 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Would satiate my cravings when obtained — 

But since they strove I strove. Then came a slow 

And strangling failure. We aspired alike, 

Yet not the meanest plodder Tritheim schools 

But faced me, all-sufficient, all-content, 

Or staggered only at his own strong wits; 

WTiile I was restless, nothing satisfied. 

Distrustful, most perplexed. I would slur over 

That struggle; suffice it, that I loathed myself 

As weak compared with them, yet felt somehow 

A mighty power was brooding, taking shape 

Within me: and this lasted till one night 

When, as I sate revolving it and more, 

A still voice from without said — "See'st thou not, 

Desponding child, whence came defeat and loss.^ 

Even from thy strength. Consider: hast thou gazed 

Presumptuously on Wisdom's countenance. 

No veil between; and can thy hands which falter 

Unguided by thy brain the mighty sight 

Continues to absorb, pursue their task 

On earth like these around thee — what their sense 

AMiich radiance ne'er distracted, clear descries.'^ 

If thou wouldst share their fortune, choose their 

life. 
Unfed by splendor. Let each task present 
Its petty good to thee. Waste not thy gifts 
In profitless waiting for the gods' descent. 
But have some idol of thine own to dress 
With their array. Know, not for knowing's sake. 
But to become a star to men forever. 
Know, for the gain it gets, the praise it brings, 
The wonder it inspires, the love it breeds. 
Look one step onward, and secure that step.'* 
And I smiled as one never smiles but once; 
Then first discovering my own aim's extent, 
WTiich sought to comprehend the w^orks of God, 

[821 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

And God himself, and all God's intercourse 

With the human mind; I understood, no less. 

My fellow's studies, whose true worth I saw. 

But smiled not, well aware who stood by me. 

And softer came the voice — "There is a way — 

'Tis hard for flesh to tread therein, imbued 

With frailty — hopeless, if indulgence first 

Have ripened inborn germs of sin to strength: 

Wilt thou adventure for my sake and man's. 

Apart from all reward?" And last it breathed — 

"Be happy, my good soldier; I am by thee. 

Be sure, even to the end!" — I answered not. 

Knowing Him. As He spoke, I was endued 

With comprehension and a steadfast will; 

And when He ceased, my brow was sealed His own. 

If there took place no special change in me, 

How comes it all things wore a different hue 

Thenceforward? — pregnant with vast consequence — 

Teeming with grand results — loaded with fate; 

So that when quailing at the mighty range 

Of secret truths which yearn for birth, I haste 

To contemplate undazzled some one truth, 

Its bearings and effects alone — at once 

What was a speck expands into a star. 

Asking a life to pass exploring thus. 

Till I near craze. I go to prove my soul! 

I see my way as birds their trackless way — 

I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first, 

I ask not: but unless God send his hail 

Or bhnding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow. 

In some time — his good time — I shall arrive: 

He guides me and the bird. In his good time! 

Mich. Vex him no further, Festus; it is so! 

Fest. Just thus you help me ever. This would hold 
Were it the trackless air, and not a path 
Inviting you, distinct with footprints yet 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Of many a mighty spirit gone that way. 
You may have purer views than theirs, perhaps, 
But they were famous in their day — the proofs 
Remain. At least accept the hght they lend. 

Par. Their light! the sum of all is briefly this: 
They labored, and grew famous; and the fruits 
Are best seen in a dark and groaning earth, 
Given over to a blind and endless strife 
With evils, which of all your Gods abates.'* 
No; I reject and spurn them utterly. 
And all they teach. Shall I still sit beside 
Their dry wells, with a white lip and filmed eye. 
While in the distance heaven is blue above 
Mountains where sleep the unsunned tarns? 

Fest. And yet 

As strong delusions have prevailed ere now: 
Men have set out as gallantly to seek 
Their ruin; I have heard of such — yourself 
Avow all hitherto have failed and fallen. 

Mich. Nay, Festus, when but as the pilgrims faint 
Through the drear way, do you expect to see 
Their city dawn afar amid the clouds.? 

Par. Aye, sounds it not like some old well-known 
tale? 
For me, I estimate their works and them 
So rightly, that at times I almost dream 
I too have spent a life the sages' way. 
And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance 
I perished in an arrogant self-reliance 
An age ago; and in that act, a prayer 
For one more chance went up so earnest, so 
Instinct with better light let in by Death, 
That life was blotted out — not so completely 
But scattered wrecks enough of it remain. 
Dim memories; as now, when seems once more 
The goal in sight again: all which, indeed, 

[84] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Is foolish, and only means — the flesh I wear. 
The earth I tread, are not more clear to me 
Than my belief, explained to you or no. 

Fest. And who am I to challenge and dispute 
That clear belief? I put away all fear. 

Mich. Then Aureole is God's commissary! he shall 
Be great and grand — and all for us! 

Par. No, sweet! 

Not great and grand. If I can serve mankind 
'Tis well — but there our intercourse must end : 
I never will be served by those I serve. 

Fest. Look well to this; here is a plague-spot, here. 
Disguise it how you may! 'Tis true, you utter 
This scorn while by our side and loving us; 
'Tis but a spot as yet; but it will break 
Into a hideous blotch if overlooked. 
How can that course be safe which from the first 
Produces carelessness to human love.^^ 
It seems you have abjured the helps which men 
Who overpass their kind, as you would do. 
Have humbly sought — I dare not thoroughly probe 
This matter, lest I learn too much: let be. 
That popular praise would little instigate 
Your efforts, nor particular approval 
Reward you; put reward aside; alone 
You shall go forth upon your arduous task. 
None shall assist you, none partake your toil. 
None share your triumph — still you must retain 
Some one to cast your glory on, to share 
Your rapture with. Were I elect like you, 
I would encircle me with love, and raise 
A rampart of my fellows; it should seem 
Impossible for me to fail, so watched 
By gentle friends who made my cause their own; 
They should ward off Fate's envy — the great gift, 
Extravagant when claimed by me alone. 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Being so a gift to them as well as me. 
If danger daunted me or ease seduced. 
How calmly their sad eyes should gaze reproach! 

Mich. O Aureole, can I sing when all alone. 
Without first calling, in my fancy, both 
To listen by my side — even I! And you? 
Do you not feel this? — say that you feel this! 

Par. I feel 'tis pleasant that my aims, at length 
Allowed their weight, should be supposed to need 
A further strengthening in these goodly helps! 
My course allures for its own sake — its sole 
Intrinsic worth; and ne'er shall boat of mine 
Adventure forth for gold and apes at once. 
Your sages say, "if human, therefore weak:" 
If weak, more need to give myself entire 
To my pursuit; and by its side, all else . . . 
No matter! I deny myself but little 
In waiving all assistance save its own — 
Would there were some real sacrifice to make! 
Your friends the sages tlirew their joys away. 
While I must be content with keeping mine. 

Fest. But do not cut yourself from human weal! 
You cannot thrive — a man that dares affect 
To spend his life in service to his kind. 
For no reward of theirs, nor bound to them 
By any tie; nor do so, Aureole! No — 
There are strange punishments for such. Give up 
(Although no visible good flow thence) some part 
Of the glory to another; hiding thus, 
Even from yourself, that all is for yourself. 
Say, say almost to God — "I have done all 
For her — not for myself!" 

Par. And who, but lately. 

Was to rejoice in my success like you? 
Whom should I love but both of you? 

Fest. I know not: 

^86^ 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

But know this, you, that 'tis no wish of mine 

You should abjure the lofty claims you make; 

Although I can no longer seek, indeed. 

To overlook the truth, that there will be 

A monstrous spectacle upon the earth, 

Beneath the pleasant sun, among the trees: 

— A being knowing not what love is. Hear me! 

You are endowed with faculties which bear 

Annexed to them as 'twere a dispensation 

To summon meaner spirits to do their will. 

And gather round them at their need; inspiring 

Such with a love themselves can never feel — 

Passionless 'mid their passionate votaries. 

I know not if you joy in this or no. 

Or ever dream that common men can live 

On objects you prize lightly, but which make 

Their heart's sole treasure: the affections seem 

Beauteous at most to you, which we must taste 

Or die: and this strange quality accords, 

I know not how, with you; sits well upon 

That luminous brow, though in another it scowls 

An eating brand — a shame. I dare not judge you : 

The rules of right and wrong thus set aside. 

There's no alternative — I own you one 

Of higher order, under other laws 

Than bind us; therefore, curb not one bold glance! 

'Tis best aspire. Once mingled with us all. . . . 

Mich. Stay with us, Aureole! cast those hopes away. 
And stay with us! An angel warns me, too, 
Man should be humble; you are very proud: 
And God, dethroned, has doleful plagues for such! 
He warns me not to dread a quick repulse. 
Nor slow defeat, but a complete success! 
You will find all you seek, and perish so! 

Par. {After a 'pause.) Are these the barren first fruits 
of my life.'^ 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Is love like this the natural lot of all? 

How many years of pain might one such hour 

O'erbalance? Dearest Michal, dearest Festus, 

What shall I say, if not that I desire 

To merit this your love; and will, dear friends. 

In swerving nothing from my first resolves. 

See, the great moon! and ere the mottled owls 

Were wide awake, I was to go. It seems 

You acquiesce at last in all save this — 

If I am like to compass what I seek 

By the untried career I choose; and then. 

If that career, making but small account 

Of much of life's delight, will yet retain 

Sufficient to sustain my soul — for thus 

I understand these fond fears just expressed. 

And first; the lore you praise and I neglect. 

The labors and the precepts of old time, 

I have not slightly disesteemed. But, friends. 

Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise 

From outward things, whate'er you may believe: 

There is an inmost center in us all. 

Where truth abides in fulness; and around 

Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, 

This perfect, clear perception — which is truth; 

A baffling and perverting carnal mesh 

Blinds it, and makes all error: and, "to know*' 

Rather consists in opening out a way 

Whence the imprisoned splendor may escape. 

Than in effecting entry for a light 

Supposed to be without. Watch narrowly 

The demonstration of a truth, its birth. 

And you trace back the effluence to its spring 

And source within us, where broods radiance vast. 

To be elicited ray by ray, as chance 

Shall favour: chance — for hitherto, your sage 

Even as he knows not how those beams are born. 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

As little knows he what unlocks their fount; 

And men have oft grown old among their books 

To die, case-hardened in their ignorance. 

Whose careless youth had promised what long years 

Of unremitted labor ne'er performed: 

While, contrary, it has chanced some idle day, 

That autumn loiterers just as fancy-free 

As the midges in the sun, have oft given vent 

To truth — produced mysteriously as cape 

Of cloud grown out of the invisible air. 

Hence, may not truth be lodged alike in all, 

The lowest as the highest? some slight film 

The interposing bar which binds it up. 

And makes the idiot, just as makes the sage 

Some film removed, the happy outlet whence 

Truth issues proudly? See this soul of ours! 

How it strives weakly in the child, is loosed 

In manhood, clogged by sickness, back compelled 

By age and waste, set free at last by death: 

Why is it, flesh enthralls it or enthrones? 

What is this flesh we have to penetrate? 

Ohj not alone when life flows still do truth 

And power emerge, but also when strange chance 

RuflBes its current; in unused conjuncture. 

When sickness breaks the body — hunger, watching. 

Excess, or languor — oftenest death's approach — 

Peril, deep joy, or woe. One man shall crawl 

Through life, surrounded with all stirring things. 

Unmoved — and he goes mad; and from the wreck 

Of what he was, by his wild talk alone, 

You first collect how great a spirit he hid. 

Therefore, set free the soul alike in all, 

Discovering the true laws by which the flesh 

Bars in the spirit! We may not be doomed 

To cope with seraphs, but at least the rest 

Shall cope with us. Make no more giants, God! 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

But elevate the race at once! We ask 

To put forth just our strength, our human strength. 

All starting fairly, all equipped alike, 

Gifted alike, all eagle-eyed, true-hearted — 

See if we cannot beat thy angels yet! 

Such is my task. I go to gather this 

The sacred knowledge, here and there dispersed 

About the world, long lost or never found. 

And why should I be sad, or lorn of hope.'^ 

Why ever make man's good distinct from God's? 

Or, finding they are one, why dare mistrust? 

Who shall succeed if not one pledged like me? 

Mine is no mad attempt to build a world 

Apart from His, like those who set themselves 

To find the nature of the spirit they bore. 

And, taught betimes that all their gorgeous dreams 

Were only born to vanish in this life, 

Refused to fit them to this narrow sphere. 

But chose to figure forth another world 

And other frames meet for their vast desires, — 

Still, all a dream! Thus was life scorned; but life 

Shall yet be crowned: twine amaranth! I am priest! 

And all for yielding with a lively spirit 

A poor existence — parting with a youth 

Like theirs who squander every energy 

Convertible to good, on painted toys. 

Breath-bubbles, gilded dust! And though I spurn 

All adventitious aims, from empty praise 

To love's award, yet whoso deems such helps 

Important, and concerns himself for me. 

May know even these will follow with the rest — 

As in the steady rolling Mayne, asleep 

Yonder, is mixed its mass of schistous ore. 

My own affections, laid to rest awhile. 

Will waken purified, subdued alone 

By all I have achieved; tUl then — till then . . . 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Ah! the time-wiUng loitering of a page 
Through bower and over lawn, till eve shall bring 
The stately lady's presence whom he loves — 
The broken sleep of the fisher whose rough coat 
Enwraps the queenly pearl — these are faint types ! 
See how they look on me — I triumph now ! 
But one thing, Festus, Michal ! — I have told 
All I shall e'er disclose to mortal : say — 
Do you believe I shall accomplish this? 

Fest. I do believe! 

Mich. I ever did believe! 

Par. Those words shall never fade from out my 
brain ! 
This earnest of the end shall never fade! 
Are there not, Festus, are there not, dear Michal, 
Two points in the adventure of the diver: 
One — when, a beggar, he prepares to plunge? 
One — when, a prince, he rises with his pearl? 
Festus, I plunge! 

Fest. I wait you when you rise! 



II. PARACELSUS ATTAINS 

Scene. Constantinople. — " The House of a Greek 
Conjurer." 1521 

Paracelsus 

Over the waters in the vaporous west 
The sun goes down as in a sphere of gold, 
Behind the outstretched city, which between. 
With all that length of domes and minarets, 
Athwart the splendor, black and crooked runs 
Like a Turk verse along a scimetar. 
There lie, thou saddest writing, and awhile 
Relieve my aching sight. 'Tis done at last! 



[91] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Strange — and the juggles of a sallow cheat 

Could win me to this act! 'Tis as yon cloud 

Should voyage unwreck'd o'er many a mountain-top 

And break upon a molehill. I have dared 

Come to a pause with knowledge; scan for once 

The heights already reach'd, without regard 

To the extent above; fairly compute 

What I have clearly gained; for once excluding 

My future which should finish and fulfil 

All half-gains, and conjectures, and mere hopes — 

And this, because a fortune-teller bids 

His credulous enquirers write thus much, 

Their previous life's attainment, in his book, 

Before his promised secret, as he vaunts. 

Make that life perfect: here, accordingly, 

'Mid the uncouth recordings of such dupes, 

— Scrawled in like fashion, lie my life's results! 

These few blurred characters suffice to note 

A stranger wandered long through many lands. 

And reaped the fruit he coveted in a few 

Discoveries, as appended here and there. 

The fragmentary produce of much toil, 

In a dim heap, fact and surmise together 

Confusedly massed, as when acquired; himself 

Too bent on gaining more to calmly stay 

And scrutinize the little which he gained: 

Slipt in the blank space 'twixt an idiot's gibber 

And a mad lover's ditty — lies the whole! 

And yet those blottings chronicle a life — 

A whole life, — mine! No thought to turn to act. 

No problem for the fancy, but a life 

Spent and decided, wasted past recall. 

Or worthy beyond peer. Stay, turn the page 

And take its chance, — thus: what, concerning "life," ^, . 

Does this remembrancer set down? — "We say f^ 

[92] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

'Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream.* 

'Tis the mere echo of time; and he whose heart 

Beat first beneath a human heart, whose speech 

Was copied from a human tongue, can never 

Recall when he was living yet knew not this. 

Nevertheless long seasons come and go. 

Till some one hour's experience shows what nought. 

He deemed, could clearer show; and ever after 

An altered brow, and eye, and gait, and speech 

Attest that now he knows the adage true 

'Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream."* 

Aye, my brave chronicler, and this same time 
As well as any: let my hour speak now! 

Now! I can go no farther; well or ill — 

'Tis done. I must desist and take my chance; 

I cannot keep on the stretch; 'tis no back-shrinking — 

For let the least assurance dawn, some end 

To my toil seem possible, and I proceed 

At any price, by any sacrifice: 

Else, here I pause: the old Greek's prophecy 

Is like to turn out true — "I shall not quit 

His chamber till I know what I desire!" 

Was it the light wind sung it, o'er the sea? 

An end, a rest! strange how the notion, once 
Admitted, gains strength every moment! Rest! 
Where kept that thought so long? this throbbing brow 
To cease — this beating heart to cease — its crowd 
Of gnawing thoughts to cease! — To dare let down 
My strung, so high-strung brain — to dare unnerve 
My harassed o'ertasked frame — to know my place, 
— My portion, my reward, my failure even. 
Assigned, made sure for ever! — To lose myself 
Among the common creatures of the world — 

[93 1 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

To draw some gain from having been a man — 

Neither to hope nor fear — to hve at length ! 

Oh, were it but in failure, to have rest! 

What, sunk insensibly so deep? Has all 

Been undergone for this? Was this the prayer 

My labor qualified me to present 

With no fear of refusal? Had I gone 

Carelessly through my task, and so judged fit 

To moderate my hopes; nay, were it now 

My sole concern to exculpate myself. 

And lessen punishment, — I could not choose 

An humbler mood to wait for the decree! 

No, no, there needs not this; no, after all, 

At worst I have performed my share of the task: 

The rest is God's concern — mine, merely this, 

To know that I have obstinately held 

By my own work. The mortal whose brave foot 

Has trod, unscathed, the temple-courts so far 

That he descries at length the shrine of shrines. 

Must let no sneering of the demons' eyes. 

Whose wrath he met unquailing, follow sly 

And fasten on him, fairly past their power. 

If where he stands he dares but stay; no, no — 

He must not stagger, faint and fall at last, 

— Knowing a charm to baffle them; behold. 

He bares his front — a mortal ventures thus 

Serene amid the echoes, beams, and glooms! 

If he be priest henceforth, or if he wake 

The god of the place to ban and blast him there, - 

Both well! What's failure or success to me? 

I have subdued my life to the one end 

Ordained life; there alone I cannot doubt, 

That only way I may be satisfied. 

Yes, well have I subdued my life! beyond 

The obligation of my strictest vows. 

The contemplation of my wildest bond, 

[941 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Which gave, in truth, my nature freely up, 

In what it should be, more than what it was — 

Consenting that whatever passions slept. 

Whatever impulses lay unmatured. 

Should wither in the germ, — but scarce foreseeing 

That the soil, doomed thus to perpetual waste. 

Would seem one day, remembered in its youth 

Beside the parched sand-tract which now it is. 

Already strewn with faint blooms, viewless then. 

I ne'er engaged to root up loves so frail 

I felt them not; yet now, 'tis very plain 

Some soft spots had their birth in me at first — 

If not love, say, like love: there w^as a time 

When yet this wolfish hunger after knowledge 

Set not remorselessly love's claims aside; 

This heart was human once, or why recall 

Einsiedeln, now, and Wiirzburg, which the Mayne 

Forsakes her course to fold as with an arm? 

And Festus — my poor Festus, with his praise. 

And counsel, and grave fears — where is he now? 

Or the sweet maiden, long ago his bride? 

I surely loved them — that last night, at least. 

When we . . . gone! gone! the better: I am saved 

The sad review of an ambitious youth. 

Choked by vile lusts, unnoticed in their birth. 

But let grow up and wind around a will 

Till action was destroyed. No, I have gone 

Purging my path successively of aught 

Wearing the distant likeness of such lusts. 

I have made life consist of one idea: 

Ere that was master — up till that was born — 

I bear a memory of a pleasant life 

Whose small events I treasure; till one morn 

I ran o'er the seven little grassy fields. 

Startling the flocks of nameless birds, to tell 

[95] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Poor Festus, leaping all the while for joy. 

To leave all trouble for futurity, 

Since I had just determined to become 

The greatest and most glorious man on earth. 

And since that morn all life has been forgot; 

All is one day — one only step between 

The outset and the end: one tyrant aim. 

Absorbing all, fills up the interval — 

One vast unbroken chain of thought, kept up 

Through a career or friendly or opposed 

To its existence: life, death, light and shade. 

The shows of the world, were bare receptacles 

Or indices of truth to be wrung thence. 

Not instruments of sorrow or delight: 

For some one truth would dimly beacon me 

From mountains rough with pines, and flit and wink 

O'er dazzling wastes of frozen snow, and tremble 

Into assured light in some branching mine. 

Where ripens, swathed in fire, the liquid gold — 

And all the beauty, all the wonder fell 

On either side the truth, as its mere robe; 

Men saw the robe — I saw the august form. 

So far, then, I have voyaged with success. 

So much is good, then, in this working sea 

Which parts me from that happy strip of land — 

But o'er that happy strip a sun shone, too! 

And fainter gleams it as the waves grow rough. 

And still more faint as the sea widens; last 

I sicken on a dead gulph, streaked with light 

From its own putrifying depths alone! 

Then — God was pledged to take me by the hand; 

Now — any miserable juggler bends 

My pride to him. All seems alike at length: 

Who knows which are the wise and which the fools? 

God may take pleasure in confounding pride 

By hiding secrets with the scorned and base — 

[961 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

He who stoops lowest may find most — in short, 
I am here; and all seems natural; I start not 
And never having glanced behind to know 
If I had kept my primal light from wane, 
Am thus insensibly grown — what I am ! 

Oh, bitter; very bitter! 

And more bitter. 
To fear a deeper curse, an inner ruin — 
Plague beneath plague — the last turning the first 
To light beside its darkness. Better weep 
My youth and its brave hopes, all dead and gone 
In tears which burn! Would I were sure to win 
Some startling secret in their stead ! — a tincture 
Of force to flush old age with youth, or breed 
Gold, or imprison moonbeams till they change 
To opal shafts ! — only that, hurling it 
Indignant back, I might convince myself 
My aims remained as ever supreme and pure! 
Even now, why not desire, for mankind's sake. 
That if I fail, some fault may be the cause, — 
That, though I sink, another may succeed? 
O God, the despicable heart of us! 
Shut out this hideous mockery from my heart! 

'Twas politic in you, Aureole, to reject 

Single rewards, and ask them in the lump; 

At all events, once launched, to hold straight on: 

For now 'tis all or nothing. Mighty profit 

Your gains will bring if they stop short of such 

Full consummation! As a man, you had 

A certain share of strength, and that is gone 

Already in the getting these you boast. 

Do not they seem to laugh, as who should say — 

*' Great master, we are here indeed; dragged forth 

[97] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

To light: this hast thou done; be glad! now, seek 
The strength to use which thou hast spent in getting!" 

And yet 'tis surely much, 'tis very much. 

Thus to have emptied youth of all its gifts, 

To feed a fire meant to hold out till morn 

Arrive with inexhaustible light; and lo, 

I have heaped up my last, and day dawns not! 

While I am left with gray hair, faded hands. 

And furrowed brow. Ha, have I, after all. 

Mistaken the wild nursling of my breast? 

Knowledge it seemed, and Power, and Recompense! 

Was she who glided through my room of nights, — 

Who laid my head on her soft knees, and smoothed 

The damp locks, — whose sly soothings just began 

When my sick spirit craved repose awhile — 

God! was I fighting Sleep off for Death's sake? 

God! Thou art Mind! Unto the Master-Mind 

Mind should be precious. Spare my mind alone! 

All else I will endure: if, as I stand 

Here, with my gains, thy thunder smite me down, 

I bow me; 'tis thy will, thy righteous will; 

I o'erpass life's restrictions, and I die: 

And if no trace of my career remain. 

Save a thin corpse at pleasure of the wind 

In these bright chambers, level with the air. 

See thou to it! But if my spirit fail. 

My once proud spirit forsake me at the last, 

Hast thou done well by me? So do not thou! 

Crush not my mind, dear God, though I be crushed! 

Hold me before the frequence of thy seraphs, 

And say — "I crushed him, lest he should disturb 

My law. Men must not know their strength: behold. 

Weak and alone, how near he raised himself!" 

But if delusions trouble me — and Thou, 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Not seldom felt with rapture in thy help 
Throughout my toil and wanderings, dost intend 
To work man's w elfare through my weak endeavor — 
To crown my mortal forehead with a beam 
From thine own blinding crown — to smile, and 

guide 
This puny hand, and let the work so framed 
Be styled my work, — hear me ! I covet not 
An influx of new power, an angel's soul: 
It were no marvel then — but I have reached 
Thus far, a man; let me conclude, a man! 
Give but one hour of my first energy, 
Of that invincible faith — one only hour! 
That I may cover with an eagle-glance 
The truths I have, and spy some certain way 
To mold them, and completing them, possess! 

Yet God is good: I started sure of that. 

And why dispute it now? I'll not believe 

But some undoubted warning long ere this 

Had reached me: stars would write his will in heaven. 

As once when a labarum was not deemed 

Too much for the old founder of these walls. 

Then, if my life has not been natural, 

It has been monstrous: yet, till late, my course 

So ardently engrossed me, that delight, 

A pausing and reflecting joy, 'tis plain, 

Though such were meant to follow as its fruit. 

Could find no place in it. True, I am worn; 

But who clothes summer, who is Life itself .f* 

God, that created all things, can renew! 

And then, though after life to please me now 

Must have no likeness to the past, what hinders 

Reward from springing out of toil, as changed 

As bursts the flower from earth, and root, and stalk? 

What use were punishment, unless some sin 

[99] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Be first detected? let me know that first! 
(Aprile, from within) 

I hear a voice, perchance I heard 

Long ago, but all too low, 

So that scarce a thought was stirred 

If really spoke the voice or no: 

I heard it in my youth, when first 

The waters of my life outburst: 

But now their stream ebbs faint, I hear 

The voice, still low, but fatal-clear — 

As if all Poets, that God meant 

Should save the world, and therefore lent 

Great gifts to, but who, proud, refused 

To do his work, or lightly used 

Those gifts, or failed through weak endeavor. 

And mourn, cast off by him forever, — 

As if these leaned in airy ring 

To call me; this the song they sing. 

"Lost, lost! yet come. 
With our wan troupe make thy home: 
Come, come! for we 
Will not breathe, so much as breathe 
Reproach to thee! 

Knowing what thou sink'st beneath: 
So we sank in those old years. 
We who bid thee, come! thou last 
Who, a living man, hast life o'erpast, 
And all together we, thy peers. 
Will pardon ask for thee, the last 
Whose trial is done, whose lot is cast 
With those who watch, but work no more — 
Who gaze on life, but live no more: 
And yet we trusted thou shouldst speak 
God's message which our lips, too weak, 

[1001 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Refused to utter, — shouldst redeem 

Our fault: such trust, and all, a dream! 

So we chose thee a bright birth-place 

Where the richness ran to flowers — 

Couldst not sing one song for grace? 

Nor make one blossom man's and ours? 

Must one more recreant to his race 

Die with unexerted powers 

And join us, leaving as he found 

The world, he was to loosen, bound? 

Anguish! ever and forever; 

Still beginning, ending never! 

Yet, lost and last one, come! 

How couldst understand, alas. 

What our pale ghosts strove to say. 

As their shades did glance and pass 

Before thee, night and day? 

Thou wert blind, as we were dumb; 

Once more, therefore, come, O come! 

How shall we better arm the spirit 

Who next shall thy post of life inherit — 

How guard him from thy ruin? 

Tell us of thy sad undoing 

Here, where we sit, ever pursuing 

Our weary task, ever renewing 

Sharp sorrow, far from God who gave 

Our powers, and man they could not save''* 

Aprile enters. 

A spirit better armed, succeeding me? 
Ha, ha! our king that wouldst be, here at last? 
Art thou the Poet who shall save the world? 
Thy hand to mine. Stay, fix thine eyes on mine. 
Thou wouldst be king? Still fix thine eyes on mine! 
Par. Ha, ha! why crouchest not? Am I not king? 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

So torture is not wholly unavailing! 

Have my fierce spasms compelled thee from thy lair? 

Art thou the Sage I only seemed to be. 

Myself of after-time, my very self 

With sight a little clearer, strength more firm. 

Who robs me of my prize and takes my place 

For just a fault, a weakness, a neglect? 

I scarcely trusted God with the surmise 

That such might come, and thou didst hear the while! 

Apr. Thine eyes are lusterless to mine; my hair 
Is soft, nay silken soft: to talk with thee 
Flushes my cheek, and thou art ashy-pale. 
True, thou hast labored, hast withstood her lips. 
The siren's! Yes, 'tis like thou hast attained! 
Tell me, dear master, wherefore now thou comes t? 
I thought thy solemn songs would have their meed 
In after-time; that I should hear the earth 
Exult in thee, and echo with thy praise. 
While I was laid forgotten in my grave. 

Par. Not so! I know thee, I am not thy dupe! 
Thou art ordained to follow in my track. 
Even as thou sayest, succeeding to my place. 
Reaping my sowing — as I scorned to reap 
The harvest sown by sages passed away. 
Thou art the sober searcher, cautious striver. 
As if, except through me, thou had searched or striven! 
Aye! tell the world! Degrade me, after all. 
To an aspirant after fame, not truth — 
To all but envy of thy fate, be sure! 

Apr. Nay, sing them to me; I shall envy not: 
Thou shalt be king! Sing thou, and I will stand 
Beside, and call deep silence for thy songs. 
And worship thee, as I had ne'er been meant 
To fill thy throne — but none shall ever know ! 
Sing to me: for already thy wild eyes 
Unlock my heart-springs, as some crystal-shaft 

[102] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Reveals by some chance blaze its parent fount 
After long time — so thou re veal's t my soul ! 
All will flash forth at last, with thee to hear! 

Par. (His secret ! my successor's secret — fool !) 
I am he that aspired to know — and thou? 

Ajyr. I would love infinitely, and be loved! 

Par. Poor slave! I am thy king indeed. 

Afr. Thou deem'st 

That — born a spirit, dowered even as thou. 
Born for thy fate — because I could not curb 
My yearnings to possess at once the full 
Enjoyment; yet neglected all the means 
Of realizing even the frailest joy; 
Gathering no fragments to appease my want. 
Yet nursing up that want till thus I die — 
Thou deem'st I cannot trace thy safe, sure march. 
O'er perils that o'erwhelm me, triumphing. 
Neglecting nought below for aught above. 
Despising nothing and ensuring all — 
Nor that I could (my time to come again) 
Lead thus my spirit securely as thine own: 
Listen, and thou shalt see I know thee well. 
I would love infinitely . . . Ah, lost! lost! 
O ye who armed me at such cost. 
Your faces shall I bear to see 
With your gifts even yet on me? — 

Par. (Ah, 'tis some moonstruck creature after all! 
Such fond fools as are like to haunt this den: 
They spread contagion, doubtless: yet he seemed 
To echo one foreboding of my heart 
So truly, that ... no matter! How he stands 
With eve's last sunbeam staying on his hair 
Which turns to it, as if they were akin: 
And those clear smiling eyes of saddest blue 
Nearly set free, so far they rise above 
The painful fruitless striving of that brow 

[103] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

And enforced knowledge of those lips, firm set 

In slow despondency's eternal sigh! 

Has he, too, missed life's end, and learned the cause?) 

Be calm, I charge thee, by thy fealty! 

Tell me what thou wouldst be, and what I am. 

Apr. I would love infinitely, and be loved. 
First: I would carve in stone, or cast in brass. 
The forms of earth. No ancient hunter, raised 
Up to the gods by his renown; no nymph 
Supposed the sweet soul of a woodland tree, 
Or sapphirine spirit of a twilight star, 
Should be too hard for me; no shepherd-king, 
Regal with his white locks; no youth who stands 
Silent and very calm amid the throng. 
His right hand ever hid beneath his robe 
Until the tyrant pass; no law-giver; 
No swan-soft woman, rubbed with lucid oils, 
Given by a god for love of her — too hard ! 
Each passion sprung from man, conceived by man. 
Would I express and clothe it in its right form, 
Or blend with others struggling in one form. 
Or show repressed by an ungainly form. 
For, if you marveled at some mighty spirit 
With a fit frame to execute his will — 
Aye, even unconsciously to work his will — 
You should be moved no less beside some strong. 
Rare spirit, fettered to a stubborn body. 
Endeavoring to subdue it, and inform it 
With its own splendor! All this I would do, 
And I would say, this done, "God's sprites being made, 
He grants to each a sphere to be its world, 
Appointed with the various objects needed 
To satisfy its spiritual desires; 
So, I create a world for these my shapes 
Fit to sustain their beauty and their strength!" 
And, at their word, I would contrive and paint 

[1041 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Woods, valleys, rocks, and plains, dells, sands, and 

wastes. 
Lakes which, when morn breaks on their quivering bed. 
Blaze like a wyvern flying round the sun; 
And ocean-isles so small, the dog-fi^sh tracking 
A dead whale, who should find them, would swim 

thrice 
Around them, and fare onward — all to hold 
The offspring of my brain. Nor these alone — 
Bronze labyrinths, palace, pyramid, and crypt. 
Baths, galleries, courts, temples, and terraces. 
Marts, theaters, and wharfs — all filled with men! 
Men everywhere! And this performed in turn. 
When those who looked on, pined to hear the hopes. 
And fears, and hates, and loves which moved the 

crowd, — 
I would throw down the pencil as the chisel. 
And I would speak: no thought which ever stirred 
A human breast should be untold; no passions, 
No soft emotions, from the turbulent stir 
Within a heart fed with desires like mine — 
To the last comfort, shutting the tired lids 
Of him who sleeps the sultry noon away 
Beneath the tent- tree by the way-side well: 
And this in language as the need should be, 
Now poured at once forth in a burning flow. 
Now piled up in a grand array of words. 
This done, to perfect and consummate all. 
Even as a luminous haze links star to star, 
I would supply all chasms with music, breathing 
Mysterious notions of the soul, no way 
To be defined save in strange melodies. 
Last, having thus revealed all I could love. 
And having received all love bestowed on it, 
I would die: so preserving through my course 
God full on me, as I was full on men: 

[105] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

And He would grant my prayer — "I have gone 

through 
All loveliness of life; make more for me. 
If not for men — or take me to thyself, 
Eternal, infinite Love!" 

If thou hast ne'er 
Conceived this mighty aim, this full desire. 
Thou hast not passed my trial, and thou art 
No king of mine. 

Par. Ah me! 

A'pr. But thou art here! 

Thou didst not gaze like me upon that end 
Till thine own powers for compassing the bliss 
Were blind with glory; nor grow mad to grasp 
At once the prize long patient toil should claim; 
Nor spurn all granted short of that. And I 
Would do as thou, a second time: nay, listen — 
Knowing ourselves, our world, our task so great. 
Our time so brief, — 'tis clear if we refuse 
The means so limited, the tools so rude 
To execute our purpose, life will fleet. 
And we shall fade, and leave our task undone. 
Rather, grow wise in time: what though our work 
Be fashioned in despite of their ill-service. 
Be crippled every way.f^ 'Twere little praise 
Did full resources wait on our good will 
At every turn. Let all be as it is. 
Some say the earth is even so contrived 
That tree, and flower, a vesture gay, conceal 
A bare and skeleton framework: had we means 
That answered to our mind! But now I seem 
Wrecked on a savage isle: how rear thereon 
My palace? Branching palms the props shall be. 
Fruit glossy mingling; gems are for the east; 
Who heeds them? I can waive them. Serpent's 
scales, 

[106] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Birds* feathers, downy furs, and fishes' skins 

Must help me; and a Uttle here and there 

Is all I can aspire to: still my art 

Shall show its birth was in a gentler clime. 

"Had I green jars of malachite, this way 

I'd range them: where those sea-shells glisten above. 

Cressets should hang, by right: this way we set 

The purple carpets, as these mats are laid. 

Woven of mere fern and rush and blossoming flag.'* 

Or if, by fortune, some completer grace 

Be spared to me, some fragment, some slight sample 

Of my own land's completer workmanship, 

Some trifle little heeded there, but here 

The place's one perfection — with what joy 

Would I enshrine the relic — cheerfully 

Foregoing all the marvels out of reach! 

Could I retain one strain of all the psalm 

Of the angels — one word of the fiat of God — 

To let my followers know what such things are! 

I would adventure nobly for their sakes: 

When nights were still, and still, the moaning sea, 

And far away I could descry the land 

Whence I departed, whither I return, 

I would dispart the waves, and stand once more 

At home, and load my bark, and hasten back, 

And fling my gains before them, rich or poor — 

"Friends," I would say, "I went far, far for them, 

Past the high rocks the haunt of doves, the mounds 

Of red earth from whose sides strange trees grow out. 

Past tracks of milk-white minute blinding sand. 

Till, by a mighty moon, I tremblingly 

Gathered these magic herbs, berry and bud. 

In haste — not pausing to reject the weeds. 

But happy plucking them at any price. 

To me, who have seen them bloom in their own soil. 

They are scarce lovely: plait and wear them, you! 

[107] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

And guess, from what they are, the springs that fed 
The stars that sparkled o'er them, night by night, 
The snakes that traveled far to sip their dew!" 
Thus for my higher loves; and thus even weakness 
Would win me honor. But not these alone 
Should claim my care; for common life, its wants 
And ways, would I set forth in beauteous hues: 
The lowest hind should not possess a hope, 
A fear, but I'd be by him, saying better 
Than he his own heart's language. I would live 
Forever in the thoughts I thus explored. 
As a discoverer's memory is attached 
To all he finds: they should be mine henceforth, 
Imbued with me, though free to all before; 
For clay, once cast into my soul's rich mine, 
Should come up crusted o'er with gems: nor this 
Would need a meaner spirit, than the first: 
Nay, 'twould be but the selfsame spirit, clothed 
In humbler guise, but still the selfsame spirit — 
As one spring wind unbinds the mountain snow, 
And comforts violets in their hermitage. 
But master, poet, who hast done all this. 
How didst thou 'scape the ruin I have met? 
Didst thou, when nerving thee to this attempt. 
Ne'er range thy mind's extent, as some wide hall, 
Dazzled by shapes that filled its length with light, 
Shapes clustered there to rule thee, not obey — 
That will not wait thy summons, will not rise 
Singly, nor when thy practised eye and hand 
Can well transfer their loveliness, but crowd 
By thee forever, bright to thy despair.'* 
Didst thou ne'er gaze on each by turns, and ne'er 
Resolve to single out one, though the rest 
Should vanish, and to give that one, entire 
In beauty, to the world; forgetting, so, 
Its peers, whose number baffles mortal power? 

[108] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

And, this determined, wert thou ne'er seduced 

By memories, and regrets, and passionate love. 

To glance once more farewell? and did their eyes 

Fasten thee, brighter and more bright, until 

Thou couldst but stagger back unto their feet. 

And laugh that man's applause or welfare once 

Could tempt thee to forsake them? Or when years 

Had passed, and still their love possessed thee wholly; 

When from without some murmur startled thee 

Of darkling mortals, famished for one ray 

Of thy so-hoarded luxury of light. 

Didst thou ne'er strive even yet to break those spells. 

And prove thou couldst recover and fulfil 

Thy early mission, long ago renounced. 

And, to that end, select some shape once more? 

And did not mist-like influences, thick films, 

Faint memories of the rest, that charmed so long 

Thine eyes, float fast, confuse thee, bear thee off, 

As whirling snowdrifts blind a man who treads 

A mountain ridge, with guiding spear, through storm? 

Say, though I fell, I had excuse to fall; 

Say, I was tempted sorely: say but this. 

Dear lord, Aprile's lord! 

Par. Clasp me not thus, 

Aprile! . . . That the truth should reach me thus! 
We are weak dust. Nay, clasp not, or I faint! 

A'pr. My king! and envious thoughts could outrage 
thee! 
Lo, I forget my ruin, and rejoice 
In thy success, as thou! Let our God's praise 
Go bravely through the world at last! What care 
Through me or thee? I feel thy breath . . . why, tears? 
Tears in the darkness — and from thee to me? 

Par. Love me henceforth, Aprile, while I learn 
To love; and, merciful God, forgive us both! 
We wake at length from weary dreams; but both 

[109] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Have slept in fairy-land: though dark and drear 
Appears the world before us, we no less 
Wake with our wrists and ankles jeweled still. 
I, too, have sought to know as thou to love — 
Excluding love as thou refusedst knowledge. 
Still thou hast beauty and I, power. We wake: 
What penance canst devise for both of us? 

Apr. I hear thee faintly . . . the thick darkness! 
Even 
Thine eyes are hid. 'Tis as I knew: I speak. 
And now I die. But I have seen thy face! 
O, poet, think of me, and sing of me! 
But to have seen thee, and to die so soon! 

Par. Die not, Aprile: we must never part. 
Are we not halves of one dissevered world. 
Whom this strange chance unites once more? Part? 

never ! 
Till thou, the lover, know; and I, the knower. 
Love — until both are saved. Aprile, hear! 
We will accept our gains, and use them — now ! 
God, he will die upon my breast! Aprile! 

Apr. To speak but once, and die! yet by his side. 
Hush! hush! 

Ha! go you ever girt about 
With phantoms, powers? I have created such. 
But these seem real as I! 

Par. Whom can you see 

Through the accursed darkness? 

Apr. Stay; I know, 

I know them: who should know them well as I? — 
White brows, lit up with glory; poets all! 

Par. Let him but live, and I have my reward! 

Apr. Yes; I see now — God is the perfect Poet, 
Who in creation acts his own conceptions. 
Shall man refuse to be aught less than God? 
Man's weakness is his glory — for the strength 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Which raises him to heaven and near God's self, 
Came spite of it: God's strength his glory is, 
For thence came with our weakness sympathy 
Which brought God down to earth, a man like us. 
Had you but told me this at first! . . . Hush! hush! 

Par. Live! for my sake, because of my great sin. 
To help my brain, oppressed by these wild words 
And their deep import. Live! 'tis not too late: 
I have a quiet home for us, and friends. 
Michal shall smile on you . . . Hear you.?^ Lean thus. 
And breathe my breath : I shall not lose one word 
Of all your speech — no little word, Aprile! 

Apr. No, no. . . . Crown me? I am not one of you! 
'Tis he, the king, you seek. I am not one . . . 

Par. Give me thy spirit, at least! Let me love, too ! 

I have attained, and now I may depart. 



III. PARACELSUS 

Scene. A chamber in the house of Paracelsus at Basel 
1526 

Paracelsus, Festus 

Par. Heap logs, and let the blaze laugh out! 

Fest. True, true! 

'Tis very fit that all, time, chance, and change 
Have wrought since last we sate thus, face to face. 
And soul to soul — all cares, far-looking fears. 
Vague apprehensions, all vain fancies bred 
By your long absence, should be cast away, 
Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal 
Of our affections. 

Par. Oh, omit not aught 



[111] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Which witnesses your own and Michal's love! 
I bade you not spare that! Forget alone 
The honors and the glories, and the rest. 
You seemed disposed to tell profusely out. 

Fest. Nay, even your honors, in a sense, I waive: 
The wondrous Paracelsus — Life's dispenser. 
Fate's commissary, idol of the schools. 
And Courts, shall be no more than Aureole still — 
Still Aureole and my friend, as when we parted 
Some twenty years ago, and I restrained 
As I best could the promptings of my spirit, 
Which secretly advanced you, from the first. 
To the preeminent rank which, since your own 
Adventurous ardor, nobly triumphing. 
Has won for you. 

Par. Yes, yes; and Michal's face 

Still wears that quiet and peculiar light, 
Like the dim circlet floating round a pearl .^^ 

Fest. Just so. 

Par. And yet her calm sweet countenance. 

Though saintly, was not sad; for she would sing 
Alone . . . Does she still sing alone, bird-like. 
Not dreaming you are near? Her carols dropt 
In flakes through that old leafy bower built under 
The sunny wall at Wiirzburg, from her lattice 
Among the trees above, while I, unseen. 
Sate conning some rare scroll from Tritheim's shelves. 
Much wondering notes so simple could divert 
My mind from study. Those were happy days! 
Respect all such as sing when all alone. 

Fest. Scarcely alone — her children, you may guess. 
Are wild beside her . . . 

Par. Ah, those children quite 

Unsettle the pure picture in my mind: 
A girl — she was so perfect, so distinct . . . 
No change, no change! Not but this added grace 

[112] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

May blend and harmonize with its compeers. 
And Michal may become her motherhood; 
But 'tis a change — and I detest all change, 
And most a change in aught I loved long since! 
So, Michal . . . you have said she thinks of me? 

Fest. O very proud will Michal be of you! 
Imagine how we sate, long winter-nights. 
Scheming and wondering — shaping your presumed 
Adventures, or devising their reward; 
Shutting out fear with all the strength of hope. 
Though it was strange how, even when most secure 
In our domestic peace, a certain dim 
And flitting shade could sadden all; it seemed 
A restlessness of heart, a silent yearning, 
A sense of something wanting, incomplete — 
Not to be put in words, perhaps avoided 
By mute consent — but, said or unsaid, felt 
To point to one so loved and so long lost. 
And then the hopes rose and shut out the fears — 
How you would laugh should I recount them now! 
I still predicted your return at last. 
With gifts beyond the greatest vaunt of all. 
All Tritheim's wondrous troop; did one of which 
Attain renowTi by any chance, I smiled — 
As well aware of who would prove his peer. 
Michal was sure some woman, long ere this, 
As beautiful as you were sage, had loved . . . 

Par. Far-seeing, truly, to discern so much 
In the fantastic projects and day-dreams 
Of a raw, restless boy! 

Fest. Say, one whose sunrise 

Well warranted our faith in this full noon! 
Can I forget the anxious voice which said, 
"Festus, have thoughts like these e'er shaped them- 
selves 
In other brains than mine — have their possessors 

[113] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Existed in like circumstance — were they weak 
As I — or ever constant from the first. 
Despising youth's allurements, and rejecting 
As spider-films the shackles I endure? 
Is there hope for me?" — and I answered grave 
As an acknowledged elder, calmer, wiser. 
More gifted mortal. O you must remember. 
For all your glorious . . . 

Par, Glorious? aye, this hair, 

These hands — nay, touch them, they are mine! Recall 
With all the said recallings, times when thus 
To lay them by your own ne'er turned you pale. 
As now. Most glorious, are they not? 

Fest Why . . . why . . . 

Something must be subtracted from success 
So wide, no doubt. He would be scrupulous, truly, 
Who should object such drawbacks. Still, still, Aureole, 
You are changed — very changed! 'Twere losing 

nothing 
To look well to it: you must not be stolen 
From the enjoyment of your well-won meed. 

Par. My friend! you seek my pleasure, past a doubt: 
By talking, not of me, but of yourself. 
You will best gain your point. 

Fest. Have I not said 

All touching Michal and my children? Sure 
You know, by this, full well how Aennchen looks 
Gravely, while one disparts her thick brown hair; 
And Aureole's glee when some stray gannet builds 
Amid the birch-trees by the lake. Small hope 
Have I that he will honor, the wild imp. 
His namesake! Sigh not! 'tis too much to ask 
That all we love should reach the same proud fate. 
But you are very kind to humor me 
By showing interest in my quiet life; 
You, who of old could never tame yourself 

nil] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

To tranquil pleasures, must at heart despise . . . 

Par, Festus, strange secrets are let out by Death, 
Who blabs so oft the follies of this world: 
And I am Death's familiar, as you know. 
I helped a man to die, some few weeks since. 
Warped even from his go-cart to on? end — 
The living on princes' smiles, reflected from 
A mighty herd of favorites. No mean trick 
He left untried; and truly well nigh wormed 
All traces of God's finger out of him. 
Then died, grown old; and just an hour before — 
Having lain long with blank and soulless eyes — 
He sate up suddenly, and with natural voice 
Said, that in spite of thick air and closed doors 
God told him it was June; and he knew well. 
Without such telling, hare-bells grew in June; 
And all that kings could ever give or take 
Would not be precious as those blooms to him. 
Just so, allowing I am passing wise. 
It seems to me much worthier argument 
Why pansies, eyes that laugh, bear beauty's prize 
From violets, eyes that dream — (your Michal's 

choice) — 
Than all fools find to wonder at in me» 
Or in my fortunes: and be very sure 
I say this from no prurient restlessness — 
No self-complacency — itching to turn. 
Vary, and view its pleasure from all points. 
And, in this matter, willing other men 
Should argue and demonstrate to itself 
The realness of the very joy it tastes. 
What joy is better than the news of friends 
Whose memories were a solace to me oft. 
As mountain-baths to wild fowls in their flight? 
Yes, ofter than you wasted thought on me 
If you were sage, and rightly valued bliss! 

__ 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

But there's no taming nor repressing hearts: 

God knows I need such! — So you heard me speak? 

Fest Speak? when? 

Par. When but this morning at my class? 

There was noise and crowd enough. I saw you not. 
Surely you know I am engaged to fill 
The chair here? — that 'tis part of my proud fate 
To lecture to as many thick-sculled youths 
As please, each day, to throng the theater. 
To my great reputation, and no small 
Danger of Basel's benches, long unused 
To crack beneath such honor? 

Fest. I was there; 

I mingled with the throng: shall I avow 
I had small care to listen? — too intent 
On gathering from the murmurs of the crowd 
A full corroboration of my hopes! 
What can I learn about your powers? but they 
Know, care for nought beyond your actual state — 
Your actual value; and yet worship you! 
Those various natures whom you sway as one! 
But ere I go, be sure I shall attend . . . 

Par. Stop, o' God's name: the thing's by no means 
yet 
Past remedy! Shall I read this morning's work 
— At least in substance? Nought so worth the gaining 
As an apt scholar! Thus then, with all due 
Precision and emphasis — (you, besides, are clearly 
Guiltless of understanding a whit more 
The subject than your stool — allowed to be 
A notable advantage) . . . 

Fest. Surely, Aureole, 

You laugh at me! 

Par. I laugh? Ha, ha! thank heaven, 

I charge you, if't be so! for I forget 
Much — and what laughter should be like! No less. 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

However, I forego that luxury. 
Since it alarms the friend who brings it back. 
True, laughter like my own must echo strange 
To thinking men; a smile were better far — 
So make me smile! If the exulting look 
You wore but now be smiling, 'tis so long 
Since I have smiled! Alas, such smiles are born 
Alone of hearts like yours, or shepherds old 
Of ancient time, whose eyes, calm as their flocks. 
Saw in the stars mere garnishry of heaven. 
In earth a stage for altars, nothing more. 
Never change, Festus: I say, never change! 

Fest. My God, if he be wretched after all! 

Par. When last we parted, Festus, you declared, 
— Or did your Michal's soft lips whisper words 
I have preserved.^ She told me she believed 
I should succeed (meaning, that in the search 
I then engaged in, I should meet success). 
And yet be wretched: now, she augured false. 

Fest. Thank heaven! but you spoke strangely! 
could I venture 
To think bare apprehension lest your friend, 
Dazzled by your resplendent course, might find 
Henceforth less sweetness in his own, awakes 
Such earnest mood in you? Fear not, dear friend. 
That I shall leave you, inwardly repining 
Your lot was not my own! 

Par. And this, for ever! 

For ever! gull who may, they will be blind! 
They will not look nor think — 'tis nothing new 
In them; but surely he is not of them! 
My Festus, do you know, I reckoned, you — 
Though all beside were sand-blind — you, my friend. 
Would look at me, once close, with piercing eye, 
Untroubled by the false glare that confounds 
A weaker vision; would remain serene, 

hit] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Though singular, amid a gaping throng. 

I feared you, or had come, sure, long ere this. 

To Einsiedeln. Well, error has no end. 

And Rhasis is a sage, and Basel boasts 

A tribe of wits, and I am wise and blest 

Past all dispute! 'Tis vain to fret at it. 

I have vowed long since that my worshipers 

Shall owe to their own deep sagacity 

All further information, good or bad: 

And little risk my reputation runs. 

Unless perchance the glance now searching me 

Be fixed much longer — for it seems to spell, 

Dimly, the characters a simpler man 

Might read distinct enough. Old eastern books 

Say, the fallen prince of morning some short space 

Remained unchanged in feature — nay, his brow 

Seemed hued with triumph: every spirit then 

Praising; his heart on flame the while: — a tale! 

Well, Festus, what discover you, I pray? 

Fest. Some foul deed sullies then a life which else 
Were raised supreme.? 

Par. Good : I do well — most well ! 

Why strive to make men hear, feel, fret themselves 
With what 'tis past their power to comprehend.? 
I would not strive now: only, having nursed 
The faint surmise that one yet walked the earth, 
One, at least, not the utter fool of show. 
Not absolutely formed to be the dupe 
Of shallow plausibilities alone; 
One who, in youth found wise enough to choose 
The happiness his riper years approve, 
Was yet so anxious for another's sake. 
That, ere his friend could rush upon a course 
Mad, ruinous, the converse of his own. 
His gentler spirit essayed, prejudged for him 
The perilous path, foresaw its destiny, 

nisi 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

And warned the weak one in such tender words. 

Such accents — his whole heart in every tone — 

That oft their memory comforted that friend 

When rather it should have increased despair: 

— Having believed, I say, that this one man 

Could never lose the wisdom from the first 

His portion — how should I refuse to grieve 

At even my gain if it attest his loss, 

At triumph which so signally disturbs 

Our old relation, proving me more wise? 

Therefore, once more reminding him how well 

He prophesied, I note the single flaw 

That spoils his prophet's title: in plain words 

You were deceived, and thus were you deceived — 

I have not been successful, and yet am 

Most wretched: there — 'tis said at last; but give 

No credit, lest you force me to concede 

That common sense yet lives upon the earth. 

Fest. You surely do not mean to banter me? 

Par. You know, or (if you have been wise enough 
To cleanse your memory of such matters) knew, 
As far as words of mine could make it clear. 
That 'twas my purpose to find joy or grief 
Solely in the fulfilment of my plan, 
Or plot, or whatsoe'er it was; rejoicing 
Alone as it proceeded prosperously, 
Sorrowing alone when any chance retarded 
Its progress. That was in those Wiirzburg days! 
Not to prolong a theme I thoroughly hate, 
I have pursued this plan with all my strength; 
And having failed therein most signally, 
Cannot object to ruin, utter and drear 
As all-excelling would have been the prize 
Had fortune favored me. I scarce do right 
To vex your frank good spirit, late rejoiced 
By my supposed prosperity, I know, 

[119] 



browning's PARACELSUS 

And, were I lucky in a glut of friends, 

Would well agree to let your error live. 

Nay, strengthen it with fables of success: 

But mine is no condition to refuse 

The transient solace of so rare a chance. 

My solitary luxury, my Festus — 

Accordingly I venture to put off 

The wearisome vest of falsehood galling me, 

Secure when he is by. I lay me bare, 

Prone at his mercy — but he is my friend ! 

Not that he need? retain his aspect grave; 

That answers not my purpose; for 'tis like. 

Some sunny morning — Basel being drained 

Of its wise population, every corner 

Of the amphitheater crammed with learned clerks, 

Here (Ecolampadius, looking worlds of wit. 

Here Castellanus, as profound as he, 

Munsterus here, Frobenius there, — all squeezed, 

And staring, and expectant, — then, I say, 

'Tis like that the poor zany of the show. 

Your friend, will choose to put his trappings off 

Before them, bid adieu to cap and bells 

And motley with a grace but seldom judged 

Expedient in such cases : — the grim smile 

That will go round! It is not therefore best 

To venture a rehearsal like the present 

In a small way? Where are the signs I seek. 

The first-fruits and fair sample of the scorn 

Due to all quacks? Why, this will never do! 

Fest. These are foul vapors. Aureole; nought beside! 
The effect of watching, study, weariness. 
Were there a spark of truth in the confusion 
Of these wild words, you would not outrage thus 
Your youth's companion. I shall ne'er regard 
These wanderings, bred of faintness and much study. 
You would not trust a trouble thus to me, 



120 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

To Michal's friend. 

Par. I have said it, dearest Festus! 

The maimer is ungracious, probably; 
More may be told in broken sobs, one day. 
And scalding tears, ere long: but I thought best 
To keep that off as long as possible. 
Do you wonder still? 

Fest. No; it must oft fall out 

That one whose labor perfects any work, 
Shall rise from it with eyes so worn, that he 
Of all men least can measure the extent 
Of what he has accomplished. He alone. 
Who, nothing tasked, is nothing weary too, 
Can clearly scan the little he effects: 
But we, the bystanders, untouched by toil, 
Estimate each aright. 

Par. This worthy Festus 

Is one of them, at last! 'Tis so with all! 
First, they set down all progress as a dream. 
And next, when he, whose quick discomfiture 
Was counted on, accomplishes some few 
And doubtful steps in his career, — behold. 
They look for every inch of ground to vanish 
Beneath his tread, so sure they judge success! 

Fest. Few doubtful steps? when death retires before 
Your presence — when the noblest of mankind. 
Broken in body, or subdued in mind. 
May through your skill renew their vigor, raise 
The shattered frame to pristine stateliness? 
When men in racking pain may purchase dreams 
Of what delights them most — swooning at once 
Into a sea of bliss, or rapt along 
As in a flying sphere of turbulent light? 
When we may look to you as one ordained 
To free the flesh from fell disease, as frees 
Our Luther's burning tongue the fettered soul? 

[121] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

When. . . . 

Par. Rather, when and where, friend, did you get 
This notable news? 

Fest. Even from the common voice; 

From those whose envy, daring not dispute 
The wonders it decries, attributes them 
To magic and such folly. 

Par. Folly.' AVhy not 

To magic, pray? You find a comfort doubtless 
In holding, God ne'er troubles him about 
Us or our doings: once we were judged worth 
The devil's tempting ... I offend: forgive me. 
And rest content. Your prophecy on the whole 
Was fair enough as prophesyings go; 
At fault a little in detail, but quite 
Precise enough in the main; accordingly 
I pay due homage: you guessed long ago 
(The prophet!) I should fail — and I have failed. 

Fest. You mean to tell me, then, the hopes which fed 
Your youth have not been realized as yet? 
Some obstacle has barred them hitherto? 
Or that their innate . . . 

Par. As I said but now, 

You have a very decent prophet's fame, 
So you but shun details here. Little matters 
Whether those hopes were mad, — the aims they 

sought. 
Safe and secure from all ambitious fools; 
Or whether my weak wits are overcome 
By what a better spirit would scorn: I fail. 
And now methinks 'twere best to change a theme, 
I am a sad fool to have stumbled on. 
I say confusedly what comes uppermost; 
But there are times when patience proves at fault. 
As now : this morning's strange encounter — you 
Beside me once again! you, whom I guessed 

[122] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Alive, since hitherto (with Luther's leave) 

No friend have I among the saints at rest. 

To judge by any good their prayers effect — 

I knew you would have helped me ! — So would He, 

My strange competitor in enterprise. 

Bound for the same end by another path. 

Arrived, or ill or well, before the time. 

At our disastrous journey's doubtful close — 

How goes it with Aprile? Ah, your heaven 

Receives not into its beatitudes 

Mere martyrs for the world's sake; heaven shuts fast: 

The poor mad poet is howling by this time! 

Since you are my sole friend then, here or there, 

I could not quite repress the varied feelings 

This meeting wakens; they have had their vent. 

And now forget them. Do the rear-mice still 

Hang like a fret-work on the gate (or what 

In my time was a gate) fronting the road 

From Einsiedeln to Lachen? 

Fest. Trifle not! 

Answer me — for my sake alone. You smiled 
Just now, when I supposed some deed, unworthy 
Yourself might blot the else so bright result; 
Yet if your motives have continued pure. 
Your earnest will unfaltering, if you still 
Remain unchanged, and if, in spite of this. 
You have experienced a defeat that proves 
Your aims forever unattainable — 
I say not, you would cheerfully resign 
The contest — mortal hearts are not so fashioned — 
But sure you would resign it ne'ertheless. 
You sought not fame, nor gain, nor even love; 
No end distinct from knowledge, — I repeat 
Your very words: once satisfied that knowledge 
Is a mere dream, you would announce as much. 
Yourself the first. But how is the event? 

[123] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

You are defeated — and I find you here ! 

Par. As though "here" did not signify defeat! 
I spoke not of my Uttle labors here — 
But of the break-down of my general aims: 
That you, aware of their extent and scope, 
Should look on these sage lecturings, approved 
By beardless boys, and bearded dotards, — these 
As a fit consummation of such aims. 
Is worthy notice! A professorship 
At Basel! Since you see so much in it. 
And think my life was reasonably drained 
Of life's delights to render me a match 
For duties arduous as such post demands, — 
Far be it from me to deny my power 
To fill the petty circle lotted out 
From infinite space, or justify the host 
Of honors thence accruing: so, take notice. 
This jewel dangling from my neck preserves 
The features of a prince, my skill restored 
To plague his people some few years to come: 
And all through a pure whim. He had eased the 

earth 
For me, but that the droll despair which seized 
The vermin of his household, tickled me. 
I came to see: here, driveled the physician 
Whose most infallible nostrum was at fault; 
There quaked the astrologer, whose horoscope 
Had promised him interminable years; 
Here a monk fumbled at the sick man's mouth 
With some undoubted relic — a sudary 
Of the Virgin; while some other dozen knaves 
Of the same brotherhood (he loved them ever) 
Were actively preparing 'neath his nose 
Such a suffumigation as, once fired. 
Had stunk the patient dead ere he could groan. 
I cursed the doctor, and upset the brother; 

[124] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Brushed past the conjurer; vowed that the first gust 

Of stench from the ingredients just ahght 

Would raise a cross-grained devil in my sword. 

Not easily laid; and ere an hour, the prince 

Slept as he never slept since prince he was. 

A day — and I was posting for my life, 

Placarded through the town as one whose spite 

Had near availed to stop the blessed effects 

Of the doctor's nostrum, which, well seconded 

By the sudary, and most by the costly smoke — 

Not leaving out the strenuous prayers sent up 

Hard by, in the abbey — raised the prince to hfe; 

To the great reputation of the seer, 

Who, confident, expected all along 

The glad event — the doctor's recompense — 

Much largess from his highness to the monks — 

And the vast solace of his loving people, 

Whose general satisfaction to increase. 

The prince was pleased no longer to defer 

The burning of some dozen heretics. 

Remanded 'till God's mercy should be shown 

Touching his sickness, as a prudent pledge 

To make it surer: last of all were joined 

Ample directions to all loyal folk 

To swell the complement, by seizing me 

Who — doubtless some rank sorcerer — had endeavored 

To thwart these pious offices, obstruct 

The prince's cure, and frustrate Heaven, by help 

Of certain devils dwelling in his sword. 

By luck, the prince in his first fit of thanks 

Had forced this bauble on me as an earnest 

Of further favors. This one case may serve 

To give sufficient taste of many such. 

So let them pass: those shelves support a pile 

Of patents, licenses, diplomas, titles, 

From Germany, France, Spain, and Italy: 

[125] 



browning's PARACELSUS 

Tliey authorize some honor: ne'ertheless, 

I set more store by this Erasmus sent; 

He trusts me; our Frobenius is his friend. 

And him "I raised" (nay, read it) "from the dead." . . . 

I weary you, I see; I merely sought 

To show, there's no great wonder after all 

That while I fill the classroom, and attract 

A crowd to Basel, I get leave to stay; 

And therefore need not scruple to accept 

The utmost they can offer — if I please: 

For 'tis but right the world should be prepared 

To treat with favor e'en fantastic wants 

Of one like me, used up in serving her. 

Just as the mortal, whom the Gods in part 

Devoured, received in place of his lost limb 

Some virtue or other — cured disease, I think; 

You mind the fables we have read together. 

Fest. You do not think I comprehend a word: 
The time was. Aureole, you were apt enough 
To clothe the airiest thoughts in specious breath; 
But surely you must feel how vague and strange 
These speeches sound. 

Par. Well, then: you know my hopes; 

I am assured, at length, those hopes were vain; 
That truth is just as far from me as ever; 
That I have thrown my life away; that sorrow 
On that account is vain, and further effort 
To mend and patch what's marred beyond repairing, 
As useless: and all this was taught to me 
By the convincing, good old-fashioned method 
Of force — by sheer compulsion. Is that plain? 

Fest. Dear Aureole! you confess my fears were just? 
God wills not . . . 

Par. Now, 'tis this I most admire — 

The constant talk men of your stamp keep up 
Of God's will, as they style it; one would swear 

[126] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Man had but merely to uplift his eye. 

To see the will in question charactered 

On the heaven's vault. 'Tis hardly wise to moot 

Such topics: doubts are many and faith is weak. 

I know as much of any will of God's, 

As knows some dumb and tortured brute what Man, 

His stern lord, wills from the perplexing blows 

That plague him every way, and there, of course. 

Where least he suffers, longest he remains — 

My case; and for such reasons I plod on. 

Subdued, but not convinced. I know as Uttle 

Why I deserve to fail, as why I hoped 

Better things in my youth. I simply know 

I am no master here, but trained and beaten 

Into the path I tread; and here I stay, 

Until some further intimation reach me. 

Like an obedient drudge: though I prefer 

To view the whole thing as a task imposed. 

Which, whether dull or pleasant, must be done — 

Yet, I deny not, there is made provision 

Of joys which tastes less jaded might_^ affect; 

Nay, some which please me too, for all my pride — 

Pleasures that once were pains: the iron ring 

Festering about a slave's neck grows at length 

Part of the flesh it eats. I hate no more 

A host of petty, vile delights, undreamed of 

Or spurned, before; such now supply the place 

Of my dead aims: as in the autumn woods 

Where tall trees used to flourish, from their roots 

Springs up a fungous brood, sickly and pale. 

Chill mushrooms, colored like a corpse's cheek. 

Fest. If I interpret well what words I seize. 
It troubles me but little that your aims. 
Vast in their dawning, and most likely grown 
Extravagantly since, have baffled you. 
Perchance I am glad; you merit greater praise; 

[1271 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Because they are too glorious to be gained, 

You do not blindly cling to them and die; 

You fell, but have not sullenly refused 

To rise, because an angel worsted you 

In wrestling, though the world holds not your peer 

And though too harsh and sudden is the change 

To yield content as yet — still you pursue 

The ungracious path as though t'were rosy-strewn. 

'Tis well: and your reward, or soon or late. 

Will come from Him whom no man serves in vain. 

Par. Ah, very fine! For my part, I conceive 
The very pausing from all further toil. 
Which you find heinous, would be as a seal 
To the sincerity of all my deeds. 
To be consistent I should die at once; 
I calculated on no after-life; 
Yet (how crept in, how fostered, I know not) 
Here am I with as passionate regret 
For youth, and health, and love so vainly lost. 
As if their preservation had been first 
And foremost in my thoughts; and this strange fact 
Humbled me wondrously, and had due force 
In rendering me the more disposed to follow 
A certain counsel, a mysterious warning — 
You will not understand — but 'twas a man 
With aims not mine, but yet pursued like mine, 
With the same fervor and no more success. 
Who perished in my sight; but summoned me 
As I would shun the ghastly fate I saw. 
To serve my race at once; to wait no longer 
'Till God should interfere in my behalf. 
And let the next world's knowledge dawn on this; 
But to distrust myself, put pride away. 
And give my gains, imperfect as they were. 
To men. I have not leisure to explain 
How since, a strange succession of events 

[128] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Has raised me to the station you behold, 
Wherein I seem to turn to most account 
The mere wreck of the past, — perhaps receive 
Some feeble glimmering token that God views 
And may approve my penance: therefore here 
You find me — doing most good or least harm: 
And if folks wonder much and profit little 
'Tis not my fault; only, I shall rejoice 
When my part in the farce is shuffled through, 
And the curtain falls; I must hold out 'till then. 

Fest. 'Till when, dear Aureole? 

Par. 'Till I'm fairly thrust 

From my proud eminence. Fortune is fickle 
And even professors fall: should that arrive, 
I see no sin in ceding to my bent. 
You little fancy what rude shocks apprize us 
We sin: God's intimations rather fail 
In clearness than in energy: 'twere well 
Did they but indicate the course to take 
Like that to be forsaken. I would fain 
Be spared a further sample! Here I stand, 
And here I stay, be sure, till forced to flit. 

Fest. Remain but firm on that head; long ere then 
All I expect will come to pass, I trust: 
The cloud that wraps you will have disappeared. 
Meantime, I see small chance of such event: 
They praise you here as one whose lore, divulged 
Already, eclipses all the past can show. 
But whose achievements, marvelous as they be, 
Are faint anticipations of a glory 
About to be revealed. When Basel's crowds 
Dismiss their teacher, I shall be content 
That he depart. 

Par. This favor at their hands 

I look for earlier than your view of things 
Would warrant. Of the crowd you saw to-day 

[129] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Remove the full half sheer amazement draws, 
The novelty, nought else; and next, the tribe 
Whose innate blockish dulness just perceives 
That unless miracles (as seem my works) 
Be wrought in their behalf, their chance is slight 
To puzzle the devil; next, the numerous set 
Who bitterly hate established schools, so help 
The teacher that oppugns them, and o'erthrows, 
'Till having planted his own doctrine, he 
May reckon on their rancor in his turn; 
Take, too, the sprinkling of sagacious knaves 
Whose cunning runs not counter to the vogue. 
But seeks, by flattery and nursing craft. 
To force my system to a premature 
Short-lived development . . , Why swell the list? 
Each has his end to serve, and his best way 
Of serving it: remove all these, remains 
A scantling — a poor dozen at the best — 
That really come to learn for learning's sake; 
Worthy to look for sympathy and service. 
And likely to draw profit from my pains. 

Fest. 'Tis no encouraging picture : still these few 
Redeem their fellows. Once implant the germ. 
Its growth, if slow, is sure. 

Par. God grant it so! 

I would make some amends: but if I fail. 
The luckless rogues have this excuse to urge. 
That much is in my method and my manner. 
My uncouth habits, my impatient spirit, 
Which hinders of reception and result 
My doctrine: much to say, small skill to speak! 
Those old aims suffered not a looking-off. 
Though for an instant; therefore, only when 
I thus renounced them and resolved to reap 
Some present fruit — to teach mankind some truth 
So dearly purchased — only then I found 

[130] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Such teaching was an art requiring cares 
And quaUties pecuHar to itself; 
That to possess was one thing — to display, 
Another. Had renown been in my thoughts. 
Or popular praise, I had soon discovered it! 
One grows but little apt to learn these things. 

Fest. If it be so, which nowise I believe. 
There needs no waiting fuller dispensation 
To leave a labor to so little use: 
Why not throw up the irksome charge at once? 

Par. A task, a task! . . . 

But wherefore hide from you 
The whole extent of degradation, once 
Engaged in the confession? Spite of all 
My fine talk of obedience, and repugnance, 
Docility, and what not, 'tis yet to learn 
If when the old task really is performed. 
And my will free once more, to choose a new, 
I shall do aught but slightly modify 
The nature of the hated one I quit. 
In plain words, I am spoiled: my life still tends 
As first it tended. I am broken and trained 
To my old habits; they are part of me. 
I know, and none so well, my darling ends 
Are proved impossible: no less, no less. 
Even now what humors me, fond fool, as when 
Their faint ghosts sit with me, and flatter me. 
And send me back content to my dull round.'* 
How can I change this soul? — this apparatus 
Constructed solely for their purposes. 
So well adapted to their every want. 
To search out and discover, prove and perfect; 
This intricate machine, whose most minute. 
Least obvious motions have their charm to me 
Though to none else — an aptitude I seize, 
An object I perceive, a use, a meaning, 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

A property, a fitness, I explain. 

And I alone: — how can I change my soul. 

And this wronged body, worthless save when tasked 

Under that soul's dominion — used to care 

For its bright master's cares, and quite subdue 

Its proper cravings — not to ail, nor pine. 

So the soul prosper — whither drag this poor. 

Tried, patient body? God! how I essayed. 

To live like that mad poet, for awhile. 

To catch Aprile's spirit, as I hoped. 

And love alone! and how I felt too warped 

And twisted and deformed! what should I do. 

Even tho' released from drudgery, but return 

Faint, as you see, and halting, blind and sore, 

To my old life — and die as I begun! 

I cannot feed on beauty, for the sake 

Of beauty only; nor can drink in balm 

From lovely objects for their loveliness; 

My nature cannot lose her first intent; 

I still must hoard, and heap, and class all truths 

With one ulterior purpose: I must know! 

Would God translate me to his throne, believe 

That I should only listen to his words 

To further my own aims! For other men. 

Beauty is prodigally strewn around. 

And I were happy could I quench as they 

This mad and thriveless longing, be content 

With beauty for itself alone: alas! 

I have addressed a frock of heavy mail. 

Yet may not join the troop of sacred knights; 

And now the forest-creatures fly from me. 

The grass-banks cool, the sunbeams warm no more! 

Best follow, dreaming that ere night arrives 

I shall o'ertake the company, and ride 

Glittering as they! 

Fest. I think I apprehend 

[132] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

What you would say: if you, in truth, design 
To enter once more on the life thus left, 
Seek not to hide that all this consciousness 
Of failure is assumed. 

Par. My friend, my friend, 

I speak, you listen; I explain, perhaps 
You understand: there our communion ends. 
Have you learnt nothing from to-day's discourse? 
When we would thoroughly know the sick man's state 
We feel awhile the fluttering pulse, press soft 
The hot brow, look upon the languid eye. 
And thence divine the rest. Must I lay bare 
My heart, hideous and beating, or tear up 
My vitals for your gaze, ere you will deem 
Enough made known? You! who are you, forsooth? 
That is the crowning operation claimed 
By the arch-demonstrator — heaven the hall. 
And earth the audience. Let Aprile and you 
Secure good places — 'twill be worth your while. 

Fest. Are you mad. Aureole? What can I have said 
To call for this? I judged from your own words. 

Par. Oh, true! A fevered wretch describes the ape 
That mocks him from the bed-foot, and you turn 
All gravely thither at once: or he recounts 
The perilous journey he has late performed. 
And you are puzzled much how that could be! 
You find me here, half stupid and half mad: 
It makes no part of my delight to search 
Into these things, much less to undergo 
Another's scrutiny; but so it chances 
That I am led to trust my state to you: 
And the event is, you combine, contrast. 
And ponder on my foolish words, as though 
They thoroughly conveyed all hidden here — 
Here, loathsome with despair, and hate, and rage! 
Is there no fear, no shrinking, or no shame? 

fl33l 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Will you guess nothing? will you spare me nothing? 
Must I go deeper? Aye or no? 

Fest. Dear friend . , . 

Par. True: I am brutal — 'tis a part of it; 
The plague's sign — you are not a lazar-haunter. 
How should you know? Well then, you think it strange 
I should profess to have failed utterly, 
And yet propose an ultimate return 
To courses void of hope: and this, because 
You know not what temptation is, nor how 
'Tis like to ply men in the sickliest part. 
You are to understand, that we who make 
Sport for the gods, are hunted to the end: 
There is not one sharp volley shot at us, 
W^hich if we manage to escape with life. 
Though touched and hurt, we straight may slacken 

pace 
And gather by the way-side herbs and roots 
To stanch our wounds, secure from further harm — 
No; we are chased to life's extremest verge. 
It will be well indeed if I return, 
A harmless busy fool, to my old ways! 
I would forget hints of another fate. 
Significant enough, which silent hours 
Have lately scared me with. 

Fest. Another! and what? 

Par. After all, Festus, you say well: I stand 
A man yet — I need never humble me. 
I would have been — something, I know not what; 
But though I cannot soar, I do not crawl : 
There are worse portions than this one of mine; 
You say well! 

Fest Ah! . . . 

Par. And deeper degradation! 

If the mean stimulants of vulgar praise. 
And vanity, should become the chosen food 

[134] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Of a sunk mind; should stifle even the wish 

To find its early aspirations true; 

Should teach it to breathe falsehood like life-breath — 

An atmosphere of craft, and trick, and lies; 

Should make it proud to emulate or surpass 

Base natures in the practices which woke 

Its most indignant loathing once . . . No, no! 

Utter damnation is reserved for Hell! 

I had immortal feelings — such shall never 

Be wholly quenched — no, no! 

My friend, you wear 
A melancholy face, and truth to speak. 
There's little cheer in all this dismal work; 
But 'twas not my desire to set abroach 
Such memories and forebodings. I foresaw 
Where they would drive; 'twere better you detailed 
News of Lucerne or Zurich; or I described 
Great Egypt's flaring sky, or Spain's cork-groves. 
Fest. I have thought now: yes, this mood will pass 
away. 
I know you, and the lofty spirit you bear. 
And easily ravel out a clue to all. 
These are the trials meet for such as you. 
Nor must you hope exemption: to be mortal 
Is to be plied with trials manifold. 
Look round! The obstacles which kept the rest 
Of men from your ambition, you have spurned; 
Their fears, their doubts, the chains that bind them best. 
Were flax before your resolute soul, which nought 
Avails to awe, save these delusions, bred 
From its own strength, its selfsame strength, dis- 
guised — 
Mocking itself. Be brave, dear Aureole! Since 
The rabbit has his shade to frighten him. 
The fawn his rustling bough, mortals their cares, 
And higher natures yet their power to laugh 

[135] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

At these entangling fantasies, as you 

At trammels of a weaker intellect. 

Measure your mind's height by the shade it casts ! 

I know you. 

Par. And I know you, dearest Festus! 

And how you love unworthily; and how 
All admiration renders blind. 

Fest You hold 

That admiration blinds? 

Par. Aye, and alas! 

Fest. Nought blinds you less than admiration will. 
Whether it be that all love renders wise 
In its degree; from love which blends with love — 
Heart answering heart — to love which spends itself 
In silent mad idolatry of some 
Preeminent mortal, some great soul of souls. 
Which ne'er will know how well it is adored : — 
I say, such love is never blind; but rather 
Alive to every the minutest spot 
Which mars its object, and which hate (supposed 
So vigilant and searching) dreams not of: 
Love broods on such : what then? When first perceived 
Is there no sweet strife to forget, to change. 
To overflush those blemishes with all 
The glow of general goodness they disturb? 
— To make those very defects an endless source 
Of new affection grown from hopes and fears? 
And, when all fails, is there no gallant stand 
Made even for much proved weak? no shrinking-back 
Lest, rising even as its idol sinks. 
It nearly reach the sacred place, and stand 
Almost a rival of that idol? Trust me. 
If there be fiends who seek to work our hurt, 
To ruin and drag down earth's mightiest spirits, 
Even at God's foot, 'twill be from such as love. 
Their zeal will gather most to serve their cause; 

[1361 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

And least from those who hate, who most essay 

By contumely and scorn to blot the hght 

Which will have entrance even to their hearts; 

For thence will our Defender tear the veil 

And show within each heart, as in a shrine. 

The giant image of Perfection, grown 

In hate's despite, whose calumnies were spawned 

In the untroubled presence of its eyes! 

True admiration blinds not; nor am I 

So blind: I call your sin exceptional; 

It springs from one whose life has passed the bounds 

Prescribed to life. Compound that fault with God! 

I speak of men; to common men like me 

The weakness you confess endears you more — 

Like the far traces of decay in suns: 

I bid you have good cheer! 

Par. Prasdarb! Optirrie! 

Think of a quiet mountain-cloistered priest 
Instructing Paracelsus! yet, 'tis so. 
Come, I will show you where my merit lies. 
'Tis in the advance of individual minds 
That the slow crowd should ground their expectation 
Eventually to follow — as the sea 
Waits ages in its bed, 'till some one wave 
Out of the multitude aspires, extends 
The empire of the whole, some feet perhaps. 
Over the strip of sand which would confine 
Its fellows so long time: thenceforth the rest. 
Even to the meanest, hurry in at once. 
And so much is clear gained. I shall be glad 
If all my labors, failing of aught else. 
Suffice to make such inroad, and procure 
A wider range for thought: nay, they do this; 
For, whatsoe'er my notions of true knowledge 
And a legitimate success, may be, 
I am not blind to my undoubted rank 

[137] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

When classed with others: I precede my age: 
And whoso wills, is very free to mount 
These labors as a platform, whence their own 
May have a prosperous outset: but, alas! 
My followers — they are noisy as you heard. 
But for intelligence — the best of them 
So clumsily wield the weapons I supply 
And they extol, that I begin to doubt 
Whether their own rude clubs and pebble-stones 
Would not do better service than my arms 
Thus vilely swayed — if error will not fall 
Sooner before the old awkward batterings 
Than my more subtle warfare, not half learned. 

Fest. I would supply that art, then, and withhold 
Its arms until you have taught their mystery. 

Par. Content you, 'tis my wish; I have recourse 
To the simplest training. Day by day I seek 
To wake the mood, the spirit which alone 
Can make those arms of any use to men. 
Of course, they are for swaggering forth at once 
Graced with Ulysses' club, Achilles' shield — 
Flash on us, all in armor, thou Achilles! 
Make our hearts dance to thy resounding step! 
A proper sight to scare the crows away! 

Fest. Pity you choose not, then, some other method 
Of coming at your point. The marvelous art 
At length established in the world bids fair 
To remedy all hindrances like these: 
Trust to Frobenius' press the precious lore 
Obscured by uncouth manner, or unfit 
For raw beginners; let his types secure 
A deathless monument to after- times; 
Meanwhile wait confidently and enjoy 
The ultimate effect: sooner or later. 
You shall be all-revealed. 

Par. The old dull question 

[138] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

In a new form; no more. Thus: I possess 

Two sorts of knowledge; one, — vast, shadowy. 

Hints of the unbounded aim I once pursued: 

The other consists of many secrets, learned 

While bent on nobler prize, — perhaps a few 

First principles which may conduct to much: 

These last I offer to my followers here. 

Now bid me chronicle the first of these. 

My ancient study, and in effect you bid me 

Revert to the wild courses just abjured: 

I must go find them scattered through the world. 

Then, for the principles, they are so simple 

(Being chiefly of the overturning sort). 

That one time is as proper to propound them 

As any other — to-morrow at my class. 

Or half a century hence embalmed in print: 

For if mankind intend to learn at all. 

They must begin by giving faith to them, 

And acting on them; and I do not see 

But that my lectures serve indifferent well: 

No doubt these dogmas fall not to the earth. 

For all their novelty and rugged setting. 

I think my class will not forget the day 

I let them know the gods of Israel, 

Aetius, Oribasius, Galen, Rhasis, 

Serapion, Avicenna, Averroes, — 

Were blocks ! 

Fest. And that reminds me, I heard something 

About your waywardness: you burned their books. 
It seems, instead of answering those sages. 

Par. And who said that? 

Fest. Some I met yesternight 

With (Ecolampadius. As you know, the purpose 
Of this short stay at Basel was to learn 
His pleasure touching certain missives sent 
For our Zuinglius and himself. 'Twas he 

[139] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Apprised me that the famous teacher here 
Was my old friend. 

Par, Ah, I forgot; you went . . . 

Fest, From Zurich with advices for the ear 
Of Luther, now at Wittemburg — (you know, 
I make no doubt, the differences of late 
With Carolostadius) — and returning sought 
Basel and . . . 

Par. I remember. Here's a case, now. 

Will teach you why I answer not, but burn 
The books you mention: pray, does Luther dream 
His arguments convince by their own force 
The crowds that own his doctrine? No, indeed: 
His plain denial of established points 
Ages had sanctified and men supposed 
Could never be oppugned while earth was under 
And heaven above them — points which chance, or time 
Affected not — did more than the array 
Of argument which followed. Boldly deny! 
There is much breath-stopping, hair-stiffening 
Awhile; then, amazed glances, mute awaiting 
The thunderbolt which does not come; and next, 
Reproachful wonder and enquiry: those 
Who else had never stirred, are able now 
To find the rest out for themselves — perhaps 
To outstrip him who set the whole at work, 
— As never will my wise class its instructor. 
And you saw Luther.? 

Fest. 'Tis a wondrous soul! 

Par. True: the so-heavy chain which galled mankind 
Is shattered, and the noblest of us all 
Must bow to the deliverer — nay, the worker 
Of our own projects — we who long before 
Had burst its trammels, but forgot the crowd. 
We should have taught, still groaned beneath the load: 
This he has done and nobly. Speed that may! 

[140] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Whatever be my chance or my despair, 
What benefits mankind must glad me too: 
And men seem made, though not as I beheved. 
For something better than the times produce: 
Witness these gangs of peasants your new Hghts 
From Suabia have possessed, whom Munzer leads. 
And whom the duke, the landgrave, and the elector 
Will calm in blood ! Well, well — 'tis not my world ! 

Fest. Hark! 

Par. 'Tis the melancholy wind astir 

Within the trees; the embers too are gray. 
Morn must be near. 

Fest. Best ope the casement: see. 

The night, late strewn with clouds and flying stars. 
Is blank and motionless : how peaceful sleep 
The tree-tops all together! Like an asp. 
The wind slips whispering from bough to bough. 

Par. Aye; you would gaze on a wind-shaken tree 
By the hour, nor count time lost. 

Fest. So you shall gaze: 

Those happy times will come again . . . 

Par. Gone! gone! 

Those pleasant times! Does not the moaning wind 
Seem to bewail that we have gained such gains 
And bartered sleep for them.'* 

Fest. It is our trust 

That there is yet another world to mend 
All error and mischance. 

Par. Another world! 

And why this world, this common world, to be 
A make-shift, a mere foil, how fair soever. 
To some fine life to come.'^ Man must be fed 
With angel's food, forsooth; and some few traces, 
Of a diviner nature which look out 
Through his corporeal baseness, warrant him 
In a supreme contempt for all provision 

[141] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

For his inferior tastes — some straggling marks 

Which constitute his essence, just as truly 

As here and there a gem would constitute 

The rock, their barren bed, a diamond. 

But were it so — were man all mind — he gains 

A station little enviable. From God 

Down to the lowest spirit ministrant, 

Intelligence exists which casts our mind 

Into immeasurable shade. No, no: 

Love, hope, fear, faith — these make humanity; 

These are its signs, and note, and character; 

And these I have lost ! — gone, shut from me forever. 

Like a dead friend, safe from unkindness more! 

See morn at length. The heavy darkness seems 

Diluted; gray and clear without the stars; 

The shrubs bestir and rouse themselves, as if 

Some snake that weighed them down all night, let go 

His hold; and from the east, fuller and fuller 

Day, like a mighty river, is flowing in; 

But clouded, wintry, desolate, and cold: 

Yet see how that broad, prickly, star-shaped plant. 

Half down in the crevice, spreads its woolly leaves. 

All thick and glistening with diamond dew. 

And you depart for Einsiedeln this day: 

And we have spent all night in talk like this! 

If you would have me better for your love. 

Revert no more to these sad themes. 

Fest. One favor. 

And I have done. I leave you, deeply moved; 
Unwilling to have fared so well, the while 
My friend has changed so sorely : if this mood 
Shall pass away — if light once more arise 
Where all is darkness now — if you see fit 
To hope, and trust again, and strive again; 
You will remember — not our love alone — 
But that my faith in God's desire for man 

[ 142 ] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

To trust on his support (as I must think 

You trusted) is obscured and dim through you; 

For you are thus, and this is no reward. 

Will you not call me to your side, dear friend? 



IV. PARACELSUS ASPIRES 

Scene. A House at Colmar, in Alsatia. 1528 

Paracelsus, Festus 

Par. (To John Oforinus, his secretary.) Sic itur ad 
astra! Dear Von Visenburg 
Is scandalized, and poor Torinus paralyzed. 
And every honest soul that Basel holds 
Aghast; and yet we live, as one may say, 
Just as though Liechtenfels had never set 
So true a value on his sorry carcass, 
And learned Putter had not frowned us dumb. 
We live; and shall as surely start to-morrow 
For Nuremburg, as we drink speedy scathe 
To Basel in this mantling wine, suffused 
With a delicate blush — no fainter tinge is born 
I' th' shut heart of a bud : pledge me, good John — 
"Basel; a hot plague ravage it, with Putter 
To stop the plague!" Even so? Do you too share 
Their panic — the reptiles? Ha, ha! faint through 

thern^ 
Desist for them! — while means enough exist 
To bow the stoutest braggart of the tribe 
Once more in crouching silence — means to breed 
A stupid wonder in each fool again. 
Now big with admiration at the skill 
Which stript a vain pretender of his plumes; 
And, that done, means to brand each slavish brow 



[143] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

So deeply, surely, ineffaceably, 

That thenceforth flattery shall not pucker it 

Out of the furrow of that hideous stamp 

Which shows the next they fawn on, what they are. 

This Basel with its magnates one and all, 

Whom I curse soul and limb. And now despatch. 

Despatch my trusty John; and what remains 

To do, whate'er arrangements for our trip 

Are yet to be completed, see you hasten 

This night; we'll weather the storm at least: to-morrow 

For Nuremburg! Now leave us; this grave clerk 

Has divers weighty matters for my ear, {Oporinus 

goes out) 
And spare my lungs. At last, my gallant Festus, 
I am rid of this arch-knave that follows me 
As a gaunt crow a gasping sheep; at last 
May give a loose to my delight. How kind. 
How very kind, my first, best, only friend! 
Why this looks like fidelity. Embrace me: 
Not a hair silvered yet! Right: you shall live 
Till I am worth your love; you shall be proud. 
And I — but let time show. Did you not wonder? 
I sent to you because our compact weighed 
Upon my conscience — (you recall the night 
At Basel, which the gods confound) — because 
Once more I aspire! I call you to my side; 
You come. You thought my message strange? 

Fest. So strange 

That I must hope, indeed, your messenger 
Has mingled his own fancies with the words 
Purporting to be yours. 

Par. He said no more, 

'Tis probable, than the precious folks I leave 
Said fifty-fold more roughly. Well-a-day, 
'Tis true; poor Paracelsus is exposed 
At last; a most egregious quack he proves, 

[1441 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

And those he overreached must spit their hate 

On one who, utterly beneath contempt. 

Could yet deceive their topping wits. You heard 

Bare truth; and at my bidding you come here 

To speed me on my enterprise, as once 

Your lavish wishes sped me, my own friend? 

Fest. What is your purpose, Aureole? 

Par. Oh, for purpose. 

There is no lack of precedents in a case 
Like mine; at least, if not precisely mine, 
The case of men cast off by those they sought 
To benefit . . . 

Fest. They really cast you off? 

I only heard a vague tale of some priest. 
Cured by your skill, who wrangled at your claim, 
Knowing his life's worth best; and how the judge 
The matter was referred to, saw no cause 
To interfere, nor you to hide your full 
Contempt of him; nor he, again, to smother 
His wrath thereat, which raised so fierce a flame 
That Basel soon was made no place for you. 

Par. The affair of Liechtenfels? the shallowest cause, 
The last and silliest outrage — mere pretense ! 
I knew it, I foretold it from the first. 
How soon the stupid wonder you mistook 
For genuine loyalty — a cheering promise 
Of better things to come — would pall and pass; 
And every word comes true. Saul is among 
The prophets! Just so long as I was pleased 
To play off the mere marvels of my art — 
Fantastic gambols leading to no end — 
I got huge praise; but one can ne'er keep down 
Our foolish nature's weakness: there they flocked, 
Poor devils, jostling, swearing, and perspiring, 
Till the walls rang again; and all for me! 
I had a kindness for them, which was right; 

[145] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

But then I stopped not till I tacked to that 

A trust in them and a respect — a sort 

Of sympathy for them: I must needs begin 

To teach them, not amaze them; "to impart 

The spirit which should instigate the search 

Of truth:" just what you bade me! I spoke out. 

Forthwith a mighty squadron, in disgust, 

Filed ofif — "the sifted chaff of the sack," I said, 

Redoubling my endeavors to secure 

The rest; when lo! one man had stayed thus long 

Only to ascertain if I supported 

This tenet of his, or that; another loved 

To hear impartially before he judged. 

And having heard, now judged; this bland disciple 

Passed for my dupe, but all along, it seems. 

Spied error where his neighbors marveled most: 

That fiery doctor who had hailed me friend. 

Did it because my by-paths, once proved wrong 

And beaconed properly, would commend again 

The good old ways our sires jogged safely o'er. 

Though not their squeamish sons; the other worthy 

Discovered divers verses of St. John, 

Which, read successively, refreshed the soul. 

But, muttered backwards, cured the gout, the stone, 

The cholic, and what not : — quid multa? The end 

Was a clear classroom, with a quiet leer 

From grave folk, and a sour reproachful glance 

From those in chief, who, cap in hand, installed 

The new professor scarce a year before; 

And a vast flourish about patient merit 

Obscured awhile by flashy tricks, but sure 

Sooner or later to emerge in splendor — 

Of which the example was some luckless wight 

Whom my arrival had discomfited, 

But now, it seems, the general voice recalled 

To fill my chair, and so efface the stain 

[146] 



THE POEM, PARACELSU3 

Basel had long incurred. I sought no better — 
Nought but a quiet dismissal from my post; 
While from my heart I wished them better suited. 
And better served. Good night to Basel, then! 
But fast as I proposed to rid the tribe 
Of my obnoxious back, I could not spare them 
The pleasure of a parting kick. 

Fest. You smile: 

Despise them as they merit! 

Par. If I smile, 

'Tis with as very contempt as ever turned 
Flesh into stone: this courteous recompense; 
This grateful . . . Festus, were your nature fit 
To be defiled, your eyes the eyes to ache 
At gangrened blotches, eating poisonous blains. 
The ulcered barky scurf of leprosy 
Which finds — a man, and leaves — a hideous thing 
That cannot but be mended by hell fire, 
— I say that, could you see as I could show, 
I would lay bare to you these human hearts 
Which God cursed long ago, and devils make since 
Their pet nest and their never-tiring home. 
O, sages have discovered we are born 
For various ends — to love, to know : has ever 
One stumbled, in his search, on any signs 
Of a nature in him formed to hate? To hate.'' 
If that be our true object which evokes 
Our powers in fullest strength, be sure 'tis hate! 

Fest. But I have yet to learn your purpose. Aureole! 

Par. What purpose were the fittest now for me.'' 
Decide! To sink beneath such ponderous shame — 
To shrink up like a crushed snail — undergo 
In silence and desist from further toil. 
And so subside into a monument 
Of one their censure blasted; or to bow 
Cheerfully as submissively — to lower 

[147] 



BROWNINGS PARACELSUS 

My old pretensions even as Basel dictates — 
To drop into the rank her wits assign me, 
And Hve as they prescribe, and make that use 
Of my poor knowledge which their rules allow — 
Proud to be patted now and then, and careful 
To practise the true posture for receiving 
The amplest benefit from their hoofs' appliance. 
When they shall condescend to tutor me. 
Then one may feel resentment like a flame, 
Prompting to deck false sj^stems in Truth's garb. 
And tangle and entwine mankind with error. 
And give them darkness for a dower, and falsehood 
For a possession: or one may mope away 
Into a shade through thinking; or else drowse 
Into a dreamless sleep, and so die off: 
But I, but I — now Festus shall divine! 
— Am merely setting out in life once more. 
Embracing my old aims! What thinks he now? 

Fest. Your aims? the aims? — to know? and where 
is found 
The early trust . . . 

Par. Nay, not so fast ; I say. 

The aims — not the old means. You know what made 

me 
A laughing-stock; I was a fool; you know 
The when and the how: hardly those means again! 
Not but they had their beauty — who should know 
Their passing beauty, if not I? But still 
They were dreams, so let them vanish: yet in beauty. 
If that may be. Stay — thus they pass in song! 

{He sings.) 

Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes 

Of labdanum, and aloe-balls 
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes 
From out her hair: (such balsam falls 

[148] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Down sea-side mountain pedestals, 
From summits where tired winds are fain. 
Spent with the vast and howUng main. 
To treasure half their island-gain). 

And strew faint sweetness from some old 

Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud, 
Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; 
And shred dim perfume, like a cloud 
From chamber long to quiet vowed. 
With mothed and dropping arras hung, 
Moldering the lute and books among 
Of queen, long dead, who lived there young. 

Mine, every word ! — and on such pile shall die 
My lovely fancies, with fair perished things. 
Themselves fair and forgotten; yes, forgotten. 
Or why abjure them? So I made this rhyme 
That fitting dignity might be preserved: 
No little proud was I; though the list of drugs 
Smacks of my old vocation, and the verse 
Halts like the best of Luther's psalms! 

Fest But, Aureole, 

Talk not thus wildly and madly. I am here — 
Did you know all, indeed! I have traveled far 
To learn your wishes. Be yourself again! 
For in this mood I recognize you less 
Than in the horrible despondency 
I witnessed last. You may account this, joy; 
But rather let me gaze on that despair 
Than hear these incoherent words, and see 
This flushed cheek and intensely-sparkling eye! 

Par. Why, man, I was light-hearted in my prime, 
I am light-hearted now; what would you have.'^ 
Aprile was a poet, I make songs — 
'Tis the very augury of success I want! 

[149] 



browning's PARACELSUS 



Why should I not be joyous now as then? 

Fest. Joyous! and how? and what remains for joy? 
You have declared the ends (which I am sick 
Of naming) are impracticable. 

Par. Aye, 

Pursued as I pursued them — the arch-fool ! 
Listen: my plan will please you not, 'tis like; 
But you are little versed in the world's ways. 
This is my plan — (first drinking its good luck) — 
I will accept all helps; all I despised 
So rashly at the outset, equally 
With early impulses, late years have quenched: 
I have tried each way singly — now for both! 
All helps — no one sort shall exclude the rest. 
I seek to know and to enjoy at once. 
Not one without the other as before. 
Suppose my labor should seem God's own cause 
Once more, as first I dreamed, it shall not balk me 
Of the meanest, earthliest, sensualest delight 
That may be snatched; for every joy is gain, 
And why spurn gain, however small? My soul 
Can die then, nor be taunted "what was gained?'* 
Nor, on the other hand, if pleasure meets me 
As though I had not spurned her hitherto, 
Shall she o'ercloud my spirit's rapt communion 
With the tumultuous past, the teeming future. 
Glorious with visions of a full success! 

Fest. Success! 

Par. And wherefore not? AVhy not prefer 

Results obtained in my best state of being. 
To those derived alone from seasons dark 
As the thoughts they bred? When I was best — my 

youth 
Un wasted — seemed success not surest too? 
It is the nature of darkness to obscure. 
I am a wanderer: I remember well 



[150] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

One journey, how I feared the track was missed, 

So long the city I desired to reach 

Lay hid; when suddenly its spires afar 

Flashed through the circhng clouds; conceive my joy! 

Too soon the vapors closed o'er it again. 

But I had seen the city, and one such glance 

No darkness could obscure: nor shall the present 

A few dull hours, a passing shame or two. 

Destroy the vivid memories of the past. 

I will fight the battle out! — a little tired. 

Perhaps — but still an able combatant. 

You look at my gray hair and furrowed brow? 

But I can turn even weakness to account: 

Of many tricks I know, 'tis not the least 

To push the ruins of my frame, whereon 

The fire of vigor trembles scarce alive. 

Into a heap, and send the flame aloft! 

"WTiat should I do with age.^* so sickness lends 

An aid; it being, I fear, the source of all 

We boast of: mind is nothing but disease. 

And natural health is ignorance. 

Fest. I see 

But one good symptom in this notable plan: 
I feared your sudden journey had in view 
To wreak immediate vengeance on your foes; 
'Tis not so: I am glad. 

Par. And if I pleased 

To spit on them, to trample them, what then? 
'Tis sorry warfare truly, but the fools 
Provoke it: I had spared their self-conceit. 
But if they must provoke me — cannot suffer > 

Forbearance on my part — if I may keep 
No quality in the shade, must needs put forth 
Power to match power, my strength against their 

strength. 
And teach them their own game with their own arms — 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Why be it so, and let them take their chance! 

I am above them hke a God — in vain 

To hide the fact — what idle scruples, then. 

Were those that ever bade me soften it. 

Communicate it gently to the world. 

Instead of proving my supremacy. 

Taking my natural station o'er their heads. 

Then owning all the glory w^as a man's. 

And in my elevation man's would be! 

But live and learn, though hfe's short; learning, hard! 

Still, one thing I have learned — not to despair: 

And therefore, though the wreck of my past self, 

I fear, dear Piitter, that your lecture-room 

Must wait awhile for its best ornament. 

The penitent empiric, who set up 

For somebody, but soon was taught his place — 

Now, but too happy to be let confess 

His error, snuff the candles, and illustrate 

{Fiat experientia corpore vili) 

Your medicine's soundness in his person. Wait, 

Good Putter! 

Fest. He who sneers thus, is a God! 

Par, Aye, aj^e, laugh at me! I am very glad 
You are not gulled by all this swaggering; you 
Can see the root of the matter ! — how I strive 
To put a good face on the overthrow 
I have experienced, and to bury and hide 
My degradation in its length and breadth; 
How the mean motives I would^make you think 
Just mingle as is due with nobler aims. 
The appetites I modestly allow 
May influence me — as I am mortal still — 
Do goad me, drive me on, and fast supplant 
My youth's desires: you are no stupid dupe; 
You find me out ! Yes, I had sent for you 
To palm these childish lies upon you, Festus! 

[1521 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Laugh — you shall laugh at me! 

Fest. The past, then, Aureole, 

Proves nothing? Is our interchange of love 
Yet to begin? Have I to swear I mean 
No flattery in this speech or that? For you, 
Whate'er you say, there is no degradation, 
These low thoughts are no inmates of your mind; 
Or wherefore this disorder? You are vexed 
As much by the intrusion of base views. 
Familiar to your adversaries, as they 
Were troubled should your qualities alight 
Amid their murky souls: not otherwise, 
A stray wolf which the winter forces down 
From our bleak hills, suffices to affright 
A village in the vales — while foresters 
Sleep calm though all night long the famished troops 
Snuff round and scratch against their crazy huts: 
These evil thoughts are monsters, and will flee. 

Par. May you be happy, Festus, my own friend! 

Fest. Nay, further; the delights you fain would 
think 
The superseders of your nobler aims. 
Though ordinary and harmless stimulants. 
Will ne'er content you . . . 

Par. Hush! I once despised them. 

But that soon passes: we are high at first 
In our demands, nor will abate a jot 
Of toil's strict value; but time passes o'er. 
And humbler spirits accept what we refuse; 
In short, when some such comfort is doled out 
As these delights, we cannot long retain 
The bitter contempt which urges us at first 
To hurl it back, but hug it to our breast 
And thankfully retire. This life of mine 
Must be lived out, and a grave thoroughly earned: 
I am just fit for that and nought beside. 

[153] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

I told you once, I cannot now Enjoy, 

Unless I deem my knowledge gains through joy; 

Nor can I Know, but straight warm tears reveal 

My need of linking also joy to knowledge: 

So on I drive — enjoying all I can, 

And knowing all I can. I speak, of course, 

Confusedly; this will better explain — feel here! 

Quick beating, is it not? — a fire of the heart 

To work off some way, this as well as any! 

So, Festus sees me fairly launched; his calm 

Compassionate look might have disturbed me once. 

But now, far from rejecting, I invite 

What bids me press^the closer, lay myself 

Open before him, and be soothed with pity; 

And hope, if he command hope; and believe 

As he directs me — satiating myself 

With his enduring love: and Festus quits me 

To give place to some credulous disciple 

Who holds that God is wise, but Paracelsus 

Has his peculiar merits. I suck in 

That homage, chuckle o'er that admiration, 

And then dismiss the fool; for night is come. 

And I betake myself to study again. 

Till patient searchings after hidden lore 

Half wring some bright truth from its prison; my 

frame 
Trembles, my forehead's veins swell out, my hair 
Tingles for triumph! Slow and sure the morn 
Shall break on my pent room, and dwindling lamp. 
And furnace dead, and scattered earths and ores. 
When, with a failing heart and throbbing brow, 
I must review my captured truth, sum up 
Its value, trace what ends to what begins. 
Its present power with its eventual bearings. 
Latent affinities, the views it opens. 
And its full length in perfecting my scheme; 

[154] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

I view it sternly circumscribed, cast down 

From the high place my fond hopes yielded it. 

Proved worthless — which, in getting, yet had cost 

Another wrench to this fast-falling frame; 

Then, quick, the cup to quaff, that chases sorrow! 

I lapse back into youth, and take again 

Mere hopes of bliss for proofs that bliss will be, 

— My fluttering pulse, for evidence that God 

Means good to me, will make my cause his own; 

See! I have cast off this remorseless care 

Which clogged a spirit born to soar so free. 

And my dim chamber has become a tent, 

Festus is sitting by me, and his Michal . . . 

Why do you start? I say, she listening here, 

(For yonder's Wiirzburg through the orchard-boughs) 

Motions as though such ardent words should find 

No echo in a maiden's quiet soul. 

But her pure bosom heaves, her eyes fill fast 

With tears, her sweet hps tremble all the while! 

Ha, ha! 

Fest. It seems, then, you expect to reap 
No unreal joy from this your present course. 
But rather . . . 

Par. Death! To die! I owe that much 

To what, at least, I was. I should be sad 
To live contented after such a fall — 
To thrive and fatten after such reverse! 
The whole plan is a makeshift, but will last 
My time. 

Fest. And you have never mused and said, 
*'I had a noble purpose, and full strength 
To compass it; but I have stopped half-way. 
And wrongly give the first-fruits of my toil 
To objects little worthy of the gift: 
Why linger round them still? why clench my fault? 
Why seek for consolation in defeat — 

[155] 



B K O ^^' N I X G S PARACELSUS 

In vain endeavors to derive a Wauty 

From ugliness? Why seek to make the most 

Of what no power can change, nor strive instead 

With mighty effort to reiieem the p;vst. 

And. gathering np the trciisures thus cast down. 

To hold a steadfai^t course till I arrive 

At their fit destination, and my own?" 

You have never pondered thus? 

Par. Have I. you ask? 

Often at midnight, when most fancies come. 
Would some such airy project visit me: 
But ever at the end ... or will you hear 
The same thing in a tale, a parable? 
It cannot prove more tedious: listen then! 
You and I, wiuidering over the world wide, 
Chance to set foot up)on a desert coast: 
Just as we cry. *'Xo human voice before 
Broke the inveterate silence of these rocks!" 
— Their querulous echo startles us: we turn: 
What ravaged structure still looks o'er the sea? 
Some characters remain, tool While we read. 
The sharp. SiUt wind, impatient for the la^^t 
Of even this record, -wistfully comes and goes. 
Or sings what we reci.^ver. mocking it. 
This is the record: and my voice, the wind's. 

{He si?:JS^ 

Over the sea our galleys went. 
With clea\ing prows in order brave. 
To a speeding wind and a bounding wave — 

A gallant armament : 
Each bark built out of a forest-tree. 

Left leafy and rough as first it grew. 
And nailed all over the gaping sides. 
Within and without, with black-bull hides. 
Seethed in fat and suppled in flame. 

[156] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

To bear the playful billows' game; 
So each good ship was rude to see, 
Rude and bare to the outward view. 

But each upbore a stately tent; 
Where cedar-pales in scented row 
Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine: 
And an awning drooped the mast below. 
In fold on fold of the purple fine, 
That neither noon-tide, nor star-shine, 
Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad. 

Might pierce the regal tenement. 
When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad 
We set the sail and plied the oar; 
But when the night-wind blew hke breath 
For joy of one day's voyage more. 
We sang together on the wide sea. 
Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; 
Each sail was loosed to the wind so free. 
Each helm made sure by the twilight star, 
And in a sleep as calm as death. 
We, the strangers from afar. 

Lay, stretched along, each weary crew 
In a circle round its wondrous tent. 
Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent, 

And with light and perfume, music too: 
So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past. 
And at morn we started beside the mast. 
And still each ship w^as sailing fast! 

One mom, the land appeared ! — a speck 
Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky — 
"Avoid it," cried our pilot, "check 

The shout, restrain the longing eye!" 
But the heaving sea was black behind 
For many a night and many a day. 
And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; 

U57l 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

So we broke the cedar-pales away, 
Let the purple awning flap in the wind, 

And a statue bright was on every deck! 
We shouted, every man of us. 
And steered right into the harbor thus. 
With pomp and paean glorious. 

An hundred shapes of lucid stone! 

All day we built a shrine for each — 
A shrine of rock for every one — 
Nor paused we till in the westering sun 

We sate together on the beach 
To sing, because our task was done; 
When lo! what shouts and merry songs! 
What laughter all the distance stirs! 
What raft comes loaded with its throngs 
Of gentle islanders? 
"The isles are just at hand," they cried; 

"Like cloudlets faint at even sleeping. 
Our temple-gates are opened wide. 

Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping 
"For the lucid shapes you bring" — they cried. 
Ob, then we woke with sudden start 
From our deep dream; we knew, too late. 
How bare the rock, how desolate. 
To which we had flung our precious freight: 

Yet we called out — "Depart! 
Our gifts, once given, must here abide: 

Our work is done; we have no heart 
To mar our work, though vain" — we cried. 

Fest. In truth.? 

Par. Nay, wait: all this in tracings faint 

May still be read on that deserted rock. 
On rugged stones, strewn here and there, but piled 
In order once; then follows — mark what follows — 

[158] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

*'The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung 
To their first fault, and withered in their pride!" 

Fest. Come back, then. Aureole; as you fear God, 
come! 
This is foul sin; come back: renounce the past. 
Forswear the future; look for joy no more. 
But wait death's summons amid holy sights. 
And trust me for the event — peace, if not joy! 
Return with me to Einsiedeln, dear Aureole. 

Par. No way, no way : it would not turn to good. 
A spotless child sleeps on the flowering moss — 
'Tis well for him; but when a sinful man, 
Envying such slumber, may desire to put 
His guilt away, shall he return at once 
To rest by lying there? Our sires knew well 
(Spite of the grave discoveries of their sons) 
The fitting course for such; dark cells, dim lamps, 
A stone floor one may writhe on like a worm; 
No mossy pillow, blue with violets! 

Fest, I see no symptom of these absolute 
And tyrannous passions. You are calmer now. 
This verse-making can purge you well enough. 
Without the terrible penance you describe. 
You love me still: the lusts you fear, will never 
Outrage your friend. To Einsiedeln, once more! 
Say but the word! 

Par. No, no; those lusts forbid: 

They crouch, I know, cowering with half-shut eye 
Beside you; 'tis their nature. Thrust yourself 
Between them and their prey; let some fool style me 
Or king or quack, it matters not, and try 
Your wisdom then, at urging their retreat! 
No, no; learn better and look deeper, Festus! 
If you knew how a devil sneers within me 
While you are talking now of this, now that, 
As though we differed scarcely save in trifles! 

[159] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Fest. Do we so differ? True, change must proceed. 
Whether for good or ill; keep from me, which! 
God made you and knows w hat you may become — 
Do not confide all secrets: I was born 
To hope, and you . . . 

Par, To trust: you know the fruits! 

Fest. Listen: I do believe, what you call trust 
Was self-reliance at the best: for, see! 
So long as God would kindly pioneer 
A path for you, and screen you from the world. 
Procure you full exemption from man's lot, 
Man's common hopes and fears, on the mere pretext 
Of your engagement in his service — yield you 
A limitless license, make you God, in fact, 
And turn your slave — you were content to say 
Most courtly praises! What is it, at last. 
But selfishness without example? None 
Could trace God's will so plain as you, while yours 
Remained implied in it; but now you fail. 
And we, who prate about that will, are fools! 
In short, God's service is established here 
As he determines fit, and not your way. 
And this you cannot brook! Such discontent 
Is weak. Renounce all creatureship at once! 
Affirm an absolute right to have and use 
Your energies; as though the rivers should say — 
"We rush to the ocean; what have we to do 
With feeding streamlets, lingering in the marshes. 
Sleeping in lazy pools?" Set up that plea. 
That will be bold at least! 

Par. Perhaps, perhaps! 

Your only serviceable spirits are those 
The east produces : — lo, the master nods. 
And they raise terraces, spread garden-grounds 
In one night's space; and, this done, straight begin 
Another century's sleep, to the great praise 

[160] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Of him that framed them wise and beautiful. 
Till a lamp's rubbing, or some, chance akin. 
Wake them again. I am of different mold. 
I would have soothed my lord, and slaved for him. 
And done him service past my narrow bond, 
And thus I get rewarded for my pains! 
Beside, 'tis vain to talk of forwarding 
God's glory otherwise; this is alone 
The sphere of its increase, as far as men 
Increase it; w^hy, then, look beyond this sphere? 
We are his glory; and if we be glorious. 
Is not the thing achieved? 

Fest. Shall one Hke me 

Judge hearts like yours? Though years have changed 

you much. 
And you have left your first love, and retain 
Its empty shade to veil your crooked ways, 
Yet I still hold that you have honored God; 
And who shall call your course without reward? 
For, wherefore this repining at defeat, 
Had triumph ne'er inured you to high hopes? 
I urge you to forsake the life you curse, 
And what success attends me? — simply talk 
Of passion, weakness, and remorse; in short, 
Anything but the naked truth: you choose 
This so-despised career, and rather praise 
Than take my happiness, or other men's. 
Once more, return! 

Par. And soon. Oporinus 

Has pilfered half my secrets by this time: 
And we depart by daybreak. I am weary, 
I know not how; not even the wine-cup soothes 
My brain to-night. . . . 
Do you not thoroughly despise me, Festus? 
No flattery! One like you needs not be told 
We live and breathe deceiving and deceived. 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Do you not scorn me from your heart of hearts? 

Me and my cant — my petty subterfuges — 

My rhymes, and all this frothy shower of words — 

My glozing, self-deceit — my outward crust 

Of lies, which wrap, as tetter, morphew, furfur 

Wrap the sound flesh? — so, see you flatter not! 

Why, even God flatters! but my friend, at least. 

Is true. I would depart, secure henceforth 

Against all further insult, hate, and wrong 

From puny foes : my one friend's scorn shall brand me — 

No fear of sinking deeper! 

Fest. No, dear Aureole! 

No, no; I came to counsel faithfully; 
There are old rules, made long ere we were born. 
By which I judge you. I, so fallible. 
So infinitely low beside your spirit 
Mighty, majestic! — even I can see 
You own some higher law than ours which call 
Sin, what is no sin — weakness, what is strength; 
But I have only these, such as they are, 
To guide me; and I blame you where they blame. 
Only so long as blaming promises 
To win peace for your soul; the more, that sorrow 
Has fallen on me of late, and they have helped me 
So that I faint not under my distress. 
But wherefore should I scruple to avow 
In spite of all, as brother judging brother, 
Your fate to me is most inexplicable: 
And should you perish without recompense 
And satisfaction yet — too hastily 
I have relied on love: you may have sinned, 
But you have loved. As a mere human matter — 
As I would have God deal with fragile men 
In the end — I say that you will triumph yet! 

Par. Have you felt sorrow, Festus? — 'tis because 
You love me. Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours! 

[162] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Well thought on; never let her know this last 
Dull winding-up of all: these miscreants dared 
Insult me — me she loved; so grieve her not. 

Fest. Your ill success can little grieve her now. 

Par. Michal is dead! pray Christ we do not craze! 

Fest, Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus! 
Fool, fool! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof — 
I cannot bear those eyes. 

Par. Nay, really dead? 

Fest. 'Tis scarce a month . . . 

Par. Stone dead ! — then you have laid her 
Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know, 
I can reveal a secret which shall comfort 
Even you. I have no julep, as men think. 
To cheat the grave; but a far better secret. 
Know then, you did not ill to trust your love 
To the cold earth: I have thought much of it: 
For I believe we do not wholly die. 

Fest. Aureole . . . 

Par. Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason 

For what I say: I think the soul can never 
Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see, 
Very unfit to put so strange a thought 
In an intelligible dress of words; 
But take it as my trust, she is not dead. 

Fest. But not on this account alone? you surely, 
— Aureole, you have believed this all along? 

Par. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews, 
While I am moved at Basel, and full of schemes 
For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing, 
As though it mattered how the farce plays out. 
So it be quickly played. Away, away! 
Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize. 
Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats. 
And leave a clear arena for the brave 
About to perish for your sport! — Behold! 

[163] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 



V. PARACELSUS ATTAINS 

Scene. A cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian^ at 
Salzburg. 1541 

Festus, Paracelsus 

Fest. No change! The weary night is well nigh 
spent, 
The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars 
Gray morning glimmers feebly — yet no change! 
Another night, and still no sigh has stirred 
That fallen discolored mouth, no pang relit 
Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body, 
Like torch-flame choked in dust: while all beside 
Was breaking, to the last they held out bright. 
As a stronghold where life intrenched itself; 
But they are dead now — very blind and dead. 
He will drowse into death without a groan! 

My Aureole — my forgotten, ruined Aureole! 
The days are gone, are gone! How grand thou wert: 
And now not one of those who struck thee down — 
Poor, glorious spirit — concerns him even to stay 
And satisfy himself his little hand 
Could turn God's image to a livid thing. 
Another night, and yet no change! 'Tis much 
That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow. 
And chafe his hands — 'tis much; but he will sure 
Know me, and look on me, and speak to me 
Once more — but only once ! His hollow cheek 
Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh 
At his own state were just about to break 
From the dying man: my brain swam, my throat 
swelled. 



[164 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

And yet I could not turn away. In truth. 

They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed 

Resolved to live — to lose no faculty; 

Thus striving to keep up bis shattered strength. 

Until they bore him to this stifling cell: 

When straight his features fell — an hour made white 

The flushed face and relaxed the quivering limb; 

Only the eye remained intense awhile, 

As though it recognized the tomb-like place; 

And then he lay as here he lies. 

Aye, here! 
Here is earth's noblest, nobly garlanded — 
Her bravest champion, with his well-won meed — 
Her best achievement, her sublime amends 
For countless generations, fleeting fast 
And followed by no trace; — the creature-god 
She instances when angels would dispute 
The title of her brood to rank with them — 
Angels, this is our angel! — those bright forms 
We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones. 
Are human, but not his: those are but men 
Whom other men press round and kneel before — 
Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind; 
Higher provision is for him you seek 
Amid our pomps and glories: see it here! 
Behold earth's paragon! Now, raise thee, clay! 

God! Thou art Love! I build my faith on that! 
Even as I watch beside thy tortured child. 
Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him. 
So doth thy right hand guide us through the world 
Wherein we stumble. God! what shall we say? 
How has he sinned? How else should he have done? 
Surely he sought thy praise — thy praise, for all 
He might be busied by the task so much 
As to forget awhile its proper end. 

[165] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer 

That I should range myself upon his side — 

How could he stop at every step to set 

Thy glory forth? Hadst Thou but granted him 

Success, thy honor would have crowned success, 

A halo round a star. Or, say he erred — 

Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe 

him 
In light and life! Thou art not made like us; 
We should be wroth in such a case; but Thou 
Forgivest — so, forgive these passionate thoughts, 
Which come unsought, and will not pass away! 
I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made 
Light for me in the darkness — tempering sorrow. 
So that it reached me like a solemn joy; 
It were too strange that I should doubt thy love: 
But what am I? Thou madest him, and knowest 
How he was fashioned. I could never err 
That way: the quiet place beside thy feet. 
Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts; 
But he — Thou shouldst have favored him as well ! 

Ah! he wakes! Aureole, I am here — 'tis Festus! 
I cast away all wishes save one wish — 
Let him but know me — only speak to me ! 
He mutters — louder and louder; any other 
Than I, with brain less laden, could collect 
What he pours forth. Dear Aureole, do but look! 
Is it talking or singing this he utters fast? 
Misery, that he should j5x me with his eye — 
Quick talking to some other all the while! 
If he would husband this wild vehemence. 
Which frustrates its intent! — I heard, I know 
I heard my name amid those rapid words: 
O he will know me yet! Could I divert 
This current — lead it somehow gently back 

[166] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Into the channels of the past ! — His eye, 
Brighter than ever! It must recognize! 

Let me speak to him in another's name. 

I am Erasmus: I am here to pray 

That Paracelsus use his skill for me. 

The schools of Paris and of Padua send 

These questions for your learning to resolve. 

We are your students, noble master: leave 

This wretched cell; what business have you here? 

Our class awaits you; come to us once more. 

(O agony! the utmost I can do 

Touches him not; how else arrest his ear?) 

I am commissioned ... I shall craze like him — 

Better be mute, and see what God shall send. 

Par. Stay, stay with me! 

Fest. I will; I am come here 

To stay with you — Festus, you loved of old; 
Festus, you know, you must know! 

Par. Festus ! Where's 

Aprile, then? Has he not chanted softly 
The melodies I heard all night? I could not 
Get to him for a cold hand on my breast. 
But I made out his music well enough, 
O, well enough! If they have filled him full 
With magical music, as they freight a star 
With light, and have remitted all his sin. 
They will forgive me too, I too shall know! 

Fest. Festus, your Festus! 

Par. Ask him if Aprile 

Knows as he Loves — if I shall Love and Know? 
I try; but that cold hand, hke lead — so cold! 

Fest. My hand, see! 

Par. Ah, the curse, Aprile, Aprile! 

We get so near — so very, very near! 
'Tis an old tale: Jove strikes the Titans down 

[167] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Not when they set about their mountain-piHng, 
But when another rock would crown their work! 
And Phaethon — doubtless his first radiant plunge 
Astonished mortals; though the gods were calm. 
And Jove prepared his thunder: all old tales! 

Fest. And what are these to you? 

Par. Aye, fiends must laugh 

So cruelly, so well; most like I never 
Could tread a single pleasure under foot. 
But they were grinning by my side, were chuckling 
To see me toil, and drop away by flakes! 
Hell-spawn! I am glad, most glad, that thus I fail! 
You that hate men and all who wish their good — 
Your cunning has o'ershot its aim. One year. 
One month, perhaps, and I had served your turn! 
You should have curbed your spite awhile. But now. 
Who will believe 'twas you that held me back.^ 
Listen: there's shame, and hissing, and contempt. 
And none but laughs who names me — none but 

spits 
Measureless scorn upon me — me alone. 
The quack, the cheat, the liar — all on me ! 
And thus your famous plan to sink mankind 
In silence and despair, bj^ teaching them 
One of their race had probed the inmost truth. 
Had done all man could do, yet failed no less — 
Your wise plan proves abortive. Men despair .^^ 
Ha, ha! why they are hooting the empiric, 
The ignorant and incapable fool who rushed 
Madly upon a work beyond his wits; 
Nor doubt they but the simplest of themselves 
Could bring the matter to triumphant issue! 
So pick and choose among them all, Accursed! 
Try now, persuade some other to slave for you. 
To ruin body and soul to work your ends: 
No, no; I am the first and last, I think! 

fl68l 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Fest. Dear friend; who are accursed? who has 

done . . . 
Par. What have I done? Fiends dare ask that? or 

you, 

Brave men? Oh, you can chime in boldly, backed 

By the others! What had you to do, sage peers? 

Here stand my rivals, truly — Arab, Jew, 

Greek, join dead hands against me: all I ask 

Is, that the world enrol my name with theirs. 

And even this poor privilege, it seems. 

They range themselves, prepared to disallow! 

Only observe: why fiends may learn from them! 

How they talk calmly of my throes — my fierce 

Aspirings, terrible watchings — each one claiming 

Its price of blood and brain; how they dissect 

And sneeringly disparage the few truths 

Got at a life's cost; they too hanging the while 

About my neck, their lies misleading me. 

And their dead names browbeating me! Gray crew. 

Yet steeped in fresh malevolence from hell. 

Is there a reason for your hate? My truths 

Have shaken a little the palm about each head? 

Just think, Aprile, all these leering dotards 

Were bent on nothing less than being crowned 

As we! That yellow blear-eyed wretch in chief. 

To whom the rest cringe low with feigned respect — 

Galen, of Pergamos and hell; nay speak 

The tale, old man! We met there face to face: 

I said the crown should fall from thee: once more 

We meet as in that ghastly vestibule: 

Look to my brow! Have I redeemed my pledge? 

Fest. Peace, peace; ah, see! 

Par. Oh, emptiness of fame 

Oh, Persic Zoroaster, lord of stars ! 
— Who said these old renowns, dead long ago. 
Could make me overlook the living world 

[169] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

To gaze through gloom at where they stood, indeed, 
But stand no longer? What a warm light life 
After the shade! In truth, my delicate witch, 
My serpent-queen, you did but well to hide 
The juggles I had else detected. Fire 
May well run harmless o'er a breast like yours! 
The cave was not so darkened by the smoke 
But that your white limbs dazzled me: Oh, white. 
And panting as they twinkled, wildly dancing! 
I cared not for your passionate gestures then. 
But now I have forgotten the charm of charms. 
The foolish knowledge which I came to seek. 
While I remember that quaint dance; and thus 
I am come back, not for those mummeries. 
But to love you, and to kiss your little feet. 
Soft as an ermine's winter coat! 

Fest. A sense 

Will struggle through these thronging words at last, 
As in the angry and tumultuous west 
A soft star trembles through the drifting clouds. 
These are the strivings of a spirit which hates 
So sad a vault should coop it, and calls up 
The past to stand between it and its fate: 
Were he at Einsiedeln — or Michal here ! 

Par. Cruel ! I see her now — I kneel — I shriek - 
I clasp her vesture — but she fades, still fades; 
And she is gone; sweet human love is gone! 
'Tis only when they spring to heaven that angels 
Reveal themselves to you; they sit all day 
Beside you, and lie down at night by you. 
Who care not for their presence — muse or sleep — 
And all at once they leave you and you know them! 
We are so fooled, so cheated! Why, even now 
I am not too secure against foul play: 
The shadows deepen, and the walls contract — 
No doubt some treachery is going on! 

1170] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

'Tis very dusk. Where are we put, Aprile? 

Have they left us in the lurch? This murky, loathsome 

Death-trap — this slaughter-house — is not the hall 

In the golden city! Keep by me, Aprile! 

There is a hand groping amid the blackness 

To catch us. Have the spider-fingers got you. 

Poet? Hold on me for your life; if once 

They pull you! — Hold! 

'Tis but a dream — no more. 
I have you still — the sun comes out again; 
Let us be happy — all will yet go well ! 
Let us confer: is it not like, Aprile, 
That spite of trouble, this ordeal passed. 
The value of my labors ascertained. 
Just as some stream foams long among the rocks 
But after glideth glassy to the sea. 
So, full content shall henceforth be my lot? 
What think you, poet? Louder! Your clear voice 
Vibrates too like a harp-string. Do you ask 
How could I still remain on earth, should God 
Grant me the great approval which I seek? 
I, you, and God can comprehend each other. 
But men would murmur, and with cause enough; 
For when they saw me, stainless of all sin. 
Preserved and sanctified by inward light. 
They would complain that comfort, shut from them, 
I drank thus unespied; that they live on, 
Nor taste the quiet of a constant joy. 
For ache, and care, and doubt, and weariness, 
While I am calm; help being vouchsafed to me. 
And hid from them! — 'Twere best consider that! 
You reason well, Aprile; but at least 
Let me know this, and die! Is this too much? 
I will learn this, if God so please, and die! 

If thou shalt please, dear God, if thou shalt please! 

[ 171 ] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

We are so weak, we know our motives least 

In their confused beginning: if at first 

I sought . . . But wherefore bare my heart to thee? 

I know thy mercy; and already thoughts 

Flock fast about my soul to comfort it. 

And intimate I cannot wholly fail, 

For love and praise would clasp me willingly 

Could I resolve to seek them: Thou art good. 

And I should be content; yet — yet first show 

I have done wrong in daring! Rather give 

The supernatural consciousness of strength 

That fed my youth — one only hour of that 

With thee to help — O what should bar me then! 

Lost, lost! Thus things are ordered here! God's 

creatures, 
And yet he takes no pride in us! — none, none! 
Truly there needs another life to come! 
If this be all — (I must tell Festus that) 
And other life await us not — for one, 
I say 'tis a poor cheat, a stupid bungle, 
A wretched failure. I, for one, protest 
Against it — and I hurl it back with scorn! 

Well, onward though alone: small time remains. 

And much to do: I must have fruit, must reap 

Some profit from my toils. I doubt my body 

Will hardly serve me through: while I have labored 

It has decayed; and now that I demand 

Its best assistance, it will crumble fast: 

A sad thought — a sad fate ! How very full 

Of wormwood 'tis, that just at altar-service. 

The rapt hymn rising with the rolling smoke, 

WTien glory dawns, and all is at the best — 

The sacred fire may flicker, and grow faint, 

And die, for want of a wood-piler's help! 

[ 172 ] 



THE POEM, PAKACELSUS 

Thus fades the flagging body, and the soul 
Is pulled down in the overthrow : well, well — 
Let men catch every word — let them lose naught 
Of what I say; something may yet be done. 

They are ruins! Trust me who am one of you! 
All ruins — glorious once, but lonely now. 
It makes my heart sick to behold you crouch 
Beside your desolate fane; the arches dim, 
The crumbling columns grand against the moon: 
Could I but rear them up once more — but that 
May never be, so leave them! Trust me, friends, 
Why should you linger here when I have built 
A far resplendent temple, all your own.^* 
Trust me, they are but ruins! See, Aprile, 
Men will not heed! Yet were I not prepared 
With better refuge for them, tongue of mine 
Should ne'er reveal how blank their dwelling is; 
I would sit down in silence with the rest. 



Ha, what? you spit at me, you grin and shriek 

Contempt into my ear — my ear which drank 

God's accents once? you curse me? Why men, men, 

I am not formed for it! Those hideous eyes 

Follow me sleeping, waking, praying God, 

And will not let me even die: spare, spare me. 

Sinning or no, forget that, only spare me 

That horrible scorn; you thought I could support it. 

But now you see what silly fragile creature 

Cowers thus. I am not good nor bad enough. 

Not Christ, nor Cain, yet even Cain was saved 

From hate like this: let me but totter back. 

Perhaps I shall elude those jeers which creep 

Into my very brain, and shut these scorched 

Eyelids, and keep those mocking faces out. 

[173] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Listen, Aprile! I am very calm: 

Be not deceived, there is no passion here, 

Where the blood leaps Uke an imprisoned thing 

I am calm; I will exterminate the race! 

Enough of that: 'tis said and it shall be. 

And now be merry — safe and sound am I, 

Who broke through their best ranks to get at you; 

And such a havoc, such a rout, Aprile! 

Fest. Have you no thought, no memory for me, 
Aureole? I am so wretched — my pure Michal 
Is gone, and you alone are left to me, 
And even you forget me : take my hand — 
Lean on me, thus. Do you not know me. Aureole? 

Par. Festus, my own friend, you are come at last? 
As you say, 'tis an awful enterprise — 
But you believe I shall go through with it: 
'Tis like you, and I thank you; thank him for me, 
Dear Michal! See how bright St. Saviour's spire 
Flames in the sunset; all its figures quaint 
Gay in the glancing light: you might conceive them 
A troop of yellow-vested, white-haired Jews, 
Bound for their own land where redemption dawns! 

Fest. Not that blest time — not our youth's time, 
dear God! 

Par» Ha — stay! true, I forget — all is done since! 
And he is come to judge me: how he speaks. 
How calm, how well! yes, it is true, all true; 
All quackery; all deceit! myself can laugh 
The first at it, if you desire: but still 
You know the obstacles which taught me tricks 
So foreign to my nature — envy, and hate — 
Blind opposition — brutal prejudice — 
Bald ignorance — what wonder if I sunk 
To humor men the way they most approved? 
My cheats were never palmed on such as you. 
Dear Festus! I will kneel if you require me, 

[174] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Impart the meagre knowledge I possess. 

Explain its bounded nature, and avow 

My insufficiency — whate'er you will : 

I give the fight up! let there be an end, 

A privacy, an obscure nook for me. 

I want to be forgotten even by God! 

But if that cannot be, dear Festus, lay me. 

When I shall die, within some narrow grave. 

Not by itself — for that would be too proud — 

But where such graves are thickest; let it look 

Nowise distinguished from the hillocks round. 

So that the peasant at his brother's bed 

May tread upon my own and know it not; 

And we shall all be equal at the last. 

Or classed according to life's natural ranks. 

Fathers, sons, brothers, friends — not rich, nor wise. 

Nor gifted: lay me thus, then say, "He lived 

Too much advanced before his brother men: 

They kept him still in front; 'twas for their good. 

But yet a dangerous station. It were strange 

That he should tell God he had never ranked 

With men: so, here at least he is a man!" 

Fest. That God shall take thee to his breast, dear 
Spirit, 
Unto his breast, be sure! and here on earth 
Shall splendor sit upon thy name forever! 
Sun! all the heaven is glad for thee: w^hat care 
If lower mountains light their snowy phares 
At thine effulgence, yet acknowledge not 
The source of day? Men look up to the sun: 
For after-ages shall retrack thy beams. 
And put aside the crowd of busy ones. 
And worship thee alone — the master-mind. 
The thinker, the explorer, the creator! 
Then, who should sneer at the convulsive throes 
With which thy deeds were born, would scorn as well 

[175] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

The winding sheet of subterraneous fire 
Which, pent and writhing, sends no less at last 
Huge islands up amid the simmering sea! 
Behold thy might in me! thou hast infused 
Thy soul in mine; and I am grand as thou, 
Seeing I comprehend thee — I so simple. 
Thou so august! I recognize thee first; 
I saw thee rise, I watched thee early and late. 
And though no glance reveal thou dost accept 
My homage — thus no less I profiFer it. 
And bid thee enter gloriously thy rest! 
Par. Festus ! 

Fest. I am for noble Aureole, God! 

I am upon his side, come weal or woe! 
His portion shall be mine! He has done well! 
I would have sinned, had I been strong enough. 
As he has sinned! Reward him or I waive 
Reward! If thou canst find no place for him. 
He shall be king elsewhere, and I will be 
His slave for ever! There are two of us! 
Par. Dear Festus! 

Fest. Here, dear Aureole! ever by you! 

Par. Nay, speak on, or I dream again. Speak on! 
Some story, anything — only your voice. 
I shall dream else. Speak on! aye, leaning so! 
Fest. Softly the Mayne river glideth 

Close by where my love abideth; 

Sleep's no softer: it proceeds 

On through lawns, on through meads. 

On and on, whate'er befall. 

Meandering and musical. 

Though the niggard pasture's edge 

Bears not on its shaven ledge 

Aught but weeds and waving grasses 

To view the river as it passes. 

Save here and there a scanty patch 

f 1761 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Of primroses, too faint to catch 
A weary bee . . . 
Par. More, more; say on! 

Fest. The river pushes 

Its gentle way through stranghng rushes. 
Where the glossy kingfisher 
Flutters when noon-heats are near, 
Glad the shelving banks to shun, 
Red and steaming in the sun. 
Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat 
Burrows, and the speckled stoat, 
Where the quick sandpipers flit 
In and out the marl and grit 
That seems to breed them, brown as they. 
Nought disturbs the river's way. 
Save some lazy stork that springs, 
Trailing it with legs and wings. 
Whom the shy fox from the hill 
Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. 
Par. My heart! they loose my heart, those simple 
words; 
Its darkness passes, which nought else could touch; 
Like some dark snake that force may not expel. 
Which glideth out to music sweet and low. 
What were you doing when your voice broke through 
A chaos of ugly images? You, indeed! 
Are you alone here.^^ 

Fest. All alone: you know me? 

This cell? 

Par. An unexceptionable vault — 
Good brick and stone — the bats kept out, the rats 
Kept in — a snug nook: how should I mistake it? 
Fest. But wherefore am I here? 
Par. Ah! well remembered: 

Why, for a purpose — for a purpose, Festus ! 
'Tis like me: here I trifle while time fleets, 

[177] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

And this occasion, lost, will ne'er return! 

You are here to be instructed. I will tell 

God's message; but I have so much to say, 

I fear to leave half out: all is confused 

No doubt; but doubtless you will learn in time. 

He would not else have brought you here: no doubt 

I shall see clearer soon. 

Fest. Tell me but this — 

You are not in despair.'^ 

Par. I? and for what? 

Fest. Alas, alas! he knows not, as I feared! 

Par. What is it you would ask me with that earnest, 
Dear, searching face? 

Fest. How feel you, Aureole? 

Par. Well! 

Well: 'tis a strange thing. I am dying, Festus, 
And now that fast the storm of life subsides, 
I first perceive how great the whirl has been: 
I was calm then, who am so dizzy now — 
Calm in the thick of the tempest, but no less 
A partner of its motion, and mixed up 
With its career. The hurricane is spent 
And the good boat speeds through the brightening 

weather; 
But is it earth or sea that heaves below? 
For the gulf rolls like a meadow, overstrewn 
With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore; 
And now some islet, loosened from the land, 
Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean; 
And now the air is full of up-torn canes. 
Light strippings from the fan-trees, tamarisks 
Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them, 
All high in the wind. Even so my varied life 
Drifts by me. I am young, old, happy, sad. 
Hoping, desponding, acting, taking rest. 
And all at once: that is, those past conditions 

[178] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Float back at once on me. If I select 

Some special epoch from the crowd, 'tis but 

To will, and straight the rest dissolve away. 

And only that particular state is present. 

With all its long-forgotten circumstance, 

Distinct and vivid as at first — myself 

A careless looker-on, and nothing more! 

Indifferent and amused, but nothing more! 

And this is death: I understand it all. 

New being waits me; new perceptions must 

Be born in me before I plunge therein; 

Which last is Death's affair; and while I speak. 

Minute by minute he is filling me 

With power; and while my foot is on the threshold 

Of boundless life — the doors unopened yet, 

All preparations not complete within — 

I turn new knowledge upon old events, 

And the effect is . . . But I must not tell; 

It is not lawful. Your own turn will come 

One day. Wait, Festus! You will die like me! 

Fest. 'Tis of that past life that I burn to hear! 

Par. You wonder it engages me just now? 
In truth, I wonder too. What's life to me? 
Where'er I look is fire, where'er I listen 
Music, and where I tend bliss overmore. 
Yet how can I refrain? 'Tis a refined 
Delight to view those chances — one last view. 
I am so near the perils I escape. 
That I must play with them and turn them over. 
To feel how fully they are past and gone. 
Still it is like some further cause exists 
For this peculiar mood — some hidden purpose; 
Did I not tell you something of it, Festus? 
I had it fast, but it has somehow slipt 
Away from me; it will return anon. 

Fest. (Indeed his cheek seems young again, his voice 

[179] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Complete with its old tones: that little laugh 
Concluding every phrase, with upturned eye, 
As though one stooped above his head, to whom 
He looked for confirmation and applause — 
Where was it gone so long, being kept so well? 
Then, the forefinger pointing as he speaks, 
Like one who traces in an open book 
The matter he declares; 'tis many a year 
Since I remarked it last: and this in him, 
But now a ghastly wreck!) 

And can it be. 
Dear Aureole, you have then found out at last 
That worldly things are utter vanity? 
That man is made for weakness, and should wait 
In patient ignorance till God appoint . . . 

Par. Ha, the purpose; the true purpose: that is it! 
How could I fail to apprehend! You here, 
I thus! But no more trifling; I see all, 
I know all : my last mission shall be done 
If strength suffice. No trifling! Stay; this posture 
Hardly befits one thus about to speak: 
I will arise. 

Fest. Nay, Aureole, are you wild.? 
You cannot leave your couch. 

Par. No help; no help; 

Not even your hand. So! there, I stand once more! 
Speak from a couch? I never lectured thus. 
My gown — the scarlet, lined with fur; now put 
The chain about my neck; my signet-ring 
Is still upon my hand, I think — even so; 
Last, my good sword; ha, trusty Azoth, leapest 
Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time? 
This couch shall be my throne: I bid these walls 
Be consecrate; this wretched cell become 
A shrine; for here God speaks to men through me! 
Now, Festus, I am ready to begin. 

[180] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

Fest. I am dumb with wonder. 

Par. Listen, therefore, Festus! 

There will be time enough, but none to spare. 
I must content myself with telling only 
The most important points. You doubtless feel 
That I am happy, Festus; very happy. 

Fest. 'Tis no delusion which uplifts him thus! 
Then you are pardoned, Aureole, all your sin? 

Par. Aye, pardoned! yet why pardoned.'^ 

Fest. 'Tis God's praise 

That man is bound to seek, and you . . . 

Par. Have lived! 

We have to live alone to set forth well 
God's praise. 'Tis true, I sinned much, as I thought. 
And in effect need mercy, for I strove 
To do that very thing; but, do your best 
Or worst, praise rises, and will rise forever. 
Pardon from Him, because of praise denied — 
Who calls me to Himself to exalt Himself? 
He might laugh as I laugh! 

Fest. Then all comes 

To the same thing. 'Tis fruitless for mankind 
To fret themselves with what concerns them not; 
They are no use that way: they should lie down 
Content as God has made them, nor go mad 
In thriveless cares to better what is ill. 

Par. No, no; mistake me not; let me not work 
More harm than I have done! This is my case: 
If I go joyous back to God, yet bring 
No offering, if I render up my soul 
Without the fruits it was ordained to bear. 
If I appear the better to love God 
For sin, as one who has no claim on him — 
Be not deceived: it may be surely thus 
With me, while higher prizes still await 
The mortal persevering to the end. 

[181] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

For I too have been something, though too soon 
I left the instincts of that happy time! 

Fest. What happy time? For God's sake, for man's 
sake. 
What time was happy? All I hope to know 
That answer will decide. What happy time? 

Par. When, but the time I vowed my help to man? 

Fest. Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable! 

Par. Yes, it was in me; I was born for it — 
I, Paracelsus: it was mine by right. 
Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul 
Might learn from its own motions that some task 
Like this awaited it about the world; 
Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours 
For fit dehghts to stay its longings vast; 
And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her 
To fill the creature full she dared to frame 
Hungry for joy; and, bravely tyrannous, 
Grow in demand, still craving more and more. 
And make each joy conceded prove a pledge 
Of other joy to follow — bating nought 
Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretense 
To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung 
As an extreme, last boon, from Destiny, 
Into occasion for new covetings. 

New strifes, new triumphs: — doubtless a strong soul 
Alone, unaided might attain to this. 
So glorious is our nature, so august 
Man's inborn uninstructed impulses. 
His naked spirit so majestical! 
But this was born in me; I was made so; 
Thus much time saved: the feverish appetites. 
The tumult of unproved desires, the unaimed 
Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind. 
Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears 
Were saved me; thus I entered on my course! 

[182] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

You may be sure I was not all exempt 

From human trouble; just so much of doubt 

As bade me plant a surer foot upon 

The sun-road — kept my eye unruined mid 

The fierce and flashing splendor — set my heart 

Trembling so much as warned me I stood there 

On sufferance — not to idly gaze, but cast 

Light on a darkling race; save for that doubt, 

I stood at first where all aspire at last 

To stand; the secret of the world was mine. 

I knew, I felt (perception unexpressed, 

Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, 

But somehow felt and known in every shift 

And change in spirit — nay, in every pore 

Of the body, even) — what God is, what we are. 

What life is — how God tastes an infinite joy 

In infinite ways — one everlasting bliss. 

From whom all being emanates, all power 

Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore, 

Yet whom existence in its lowest form 

Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is He! 

With still a flying point of bliss remote, 

A happiness in store afar, a sphere 

Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs 

Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever! 

The center-fire heaves underneath the earth. 

And the earth changes like a human face; 

The molten ore bursts up among the rocks. 

Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright 

In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds. 

Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask — 

God joys therein! The wroth sea's waves are edged 

With foam, white as the bitten lip of Hate, 

When in the solitary, waste, strange groups 

Of young volcanoes come up, cyclops-like. 

Staring together with their eyes on flame; — 

[ 183 ] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride! 

Then all is still: earth is a wintry clod; 

But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes 

Over its breast to waken it; rare verdure 

Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between 

The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, 

Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; 

The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with 

blooms. 
Like chrysahds impatient for the air; 
The shining dorrs are busy; beetles run 
Along the furrows, ants make their ado; 
Above, birds fly in merry flocks — the lark 
Soars up and up, shivering for very joy: 
Afar the ocean sleeps; white fisliing-gulls 
Flit where the strand is purple w4th its tribe 
Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek 
Their loves in wood and plain; and God renews 
His ancient rapture! Thus he dwells in all, 
From life's minute beginnings, up at last 
To man — the consummation of this scheme 
Of being, the completion of tliis sphere 
Of life: whose attributes had here and there 
Been scattered o'er the visible world before. 
Asking to be combined — dim fragments meant 
To be united in some wondrous whole — 
Imperfect qualities throughout creation, 
Suggesting some one creature yet to make — 
Some point where all those scattered rays should meet 
Convergent in the faculties of man. 
Power; neither put forth blindly, nor controlled 
Calmly by perfect knowledge; to be used 
At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear: 
Knowledge; not intuition, but the slow 
Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil. 
Strengthened by love: love; not serenely pure, 

[184] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown plant 

Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds. 

And softer stains, unknown in happier climes; 

Love which endures, and doubts, and is oppressed. 

And cherished, suffering much, and much sustained, 

A blind, oft-failing, yet believing love, 

A half -enlightened, often-checkered trust: — 

Hints and previsions of which faculties, 

Are strewn confusedly everywhere about 

The inferior natures; and all lead up higher. 

All shape out dimly the superior race. 

The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false. 

And Man appears at last: so far the seal 

Is put on life; one stage of being complete, 

One scheme wound up; and from the grand result 

A supplementary reflux of light. 

Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains 

Each back step in the circle. Not alone 

For their possessor dawn those qualities. 

But the new glory mixes with the heaven 

And earth: Man, once descried, imprints forever 

His presence on all lifeless things; the winds 

Are henceforth voices, in a wail or shout, 

A querulous mutter, or a quick gay laugh — 

Never a senseless gust now man is born! 

The herded pines commune, and have deep thoughts, 

A secret they assemble to discuss. 

When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare 

Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat 

Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph 

Swims bearing high above her head: no bird 

Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above 

That let light in upon the gloomy woods, 

A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top. 

Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye: 

The morn has enterprise — deep quiet droops 

[185] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

With evening; triumph takes the sun-set hour. 

Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn 

Beneath a warm moon Hke a happy face: 

— And this to fill us with regard for man. 

With apprehension for his passing worth. 

Desire to work his proper nature out, 

And ascertain his rank and final place: 

For these things tend still upward — progress is 

The law of life — man's self is not yet Man ! 

Nor shall I deem his object served, his end 

Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth. 

While only here and there a star dispels 

The darkness, here and there a towering mind 

O'erlooks its prostrate fellows: when the host 

Is out at once to the despair of night. 

When all mankind alike is perfected, 

Equal in full-blown powers — then, not till then, 

I say, begins man's general infancy! 

For wherefore make account of feverish starts 

Of restless members of a dormant whole — 

Impatient nerves which quiver while the body 

Slumbers as in a grave? O, long ago 

The brow was twitched, the tremulous lids astir, 

The peaceful mouth disturbed; half-uttered speech 

Ruflfled the lip, and then the teeth were set. 

The breath drawn sharp, the strong right-hand 

clenched stronger. 
As it would pluck a lion by the jaw; 
The glorious creature laughed out even in sleep! 
But when full roused, each giant-limb awake, 
Each sinew strung, the great heart pulsing fast. 
He shall start up, and stand on his own earth. 
And so begin his long triumphant march, 
And date his being thence — thus wholly roused. 
What he achieves shall be set down to him! 
When all the race is perfected alike 

[186] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

As Man, that is: all tended to mankind, 

And, man produced, all has its end thus far; 

But in completed man begins anew 

A tendency to God. Prognostics told 

Man's near approach; so in man's self arise 

August anticipations, symbols, types 

Of a dim splendor ever on before. 

In that eternal circle run by life: 

For men begin to pass their nature's bound. 

And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant 

Their proper joys and griefs; and outgrow all 

The narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade 

Before the unmeasured thirst for good; while peace 

Rises within them ever more and more. 

Such men are even now upon the earth. 

Serene amid the half-formed creatures round, 

Who should be saved by them and joined with them. 

Such was my task, and I was born to it — 

Free, as I said but now, from much that chains 

Spirits, high-dowered, but limited and vexed 

By a divided and delusive aim. 

A shadow mocking a reality 

Whose truth avails not wholly to disperse 

The flitting mimic called up by itself. 

And so remains perplexed and nigh put out 

By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam. 

I, from the first, was never cheated so; 

I never fashioned out a fancied good 

Distinct from man's; a service to be done, 

A glory to be ministered unto. 

With powers put forth at man's expense, withdrawn 

From laboring in his behalf; a strength 

Denied that might avail him! I cared not 

Lest his success ran counter to success 

Elsewhere: for God is glorified in man. 

And to man's glory, vowed I soul and limb, 

[187] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Yet, constituted thus, and thus endowed, 

I failed : I gazed on power till I grew blind — 

On power; I could not take my eyes from that — 

That only, I thought, should be preserved, increased 

At any risk, displayed, struck out at once — 

The sign, and note, and character of man. 

I saw no use in the past: only a scene 

Of degradation, imbecility — 

The record of disgraces best forgotten, 

A sullen page in human chronicles 

Fit to erase: I saw no cause why man 

Should not be all-sufficient even now; 

Or why his annals should be forced to tell 

That once the tide of light, about to break 

Upon the world, was sealed within its spring; 

I would have had one day, one moment's space, 

Change man's condition, push each slumbering claim 

To mastery o'er the elemental world 

At once to full maturity, then roll 

Oblivion o'er the tools, and hide from man, 

What night had ushered morn. Not so, dear child 

Of after-days, wilt thou reject the Past, 

Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure 

By which thou hast the earth: the Present for thee 

Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen 

Beside that Past's own shade, whence, in relief. 

Its brightness shall stand out: nor on thee yet 

Shall burst the Future, as successive zones 

Of several wonder open on some spirit 

Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven; 

But thou shalt painfully attain to joy. 

While hope, and fear, and love, shall keep thee man! 

All this was hid from me: as one by one 

My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed. 

As actual good within my reach decreased. 

While obstacles sprung up this way and that, 

[ 188 ] 



THE POEM, PARACELSUS 

To keep me from effecting half the sum, 

Small as it proved; as objects, mean within 

The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least. 

Itself a match for my concentered strength — 

What wonder if I saw no way to shun 

Despair? The power I sought for man, seemed God's! 

In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die, 

A strange adventure made me know, One Sin 

Had spotted my career from its uprise; 

I saw Aprile — my Aprile there! 

And as the poor melodious wretch disburthened 

His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear, 

I learned my own deep error; love's undoing 

Taught me the worth of love in man's estate. 

And what proportion love should hold with power 

In his right constitution; love preceding 

Power, and with much power, always much more love; 

Love still too straitened in its present means. 

And earnest for new power to set it free. 

I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned; 

And thus, when men received with stupid wonder 

My first revealings, would have worshiped me. 

And I despised and loathed their proffered praise — 

When, with awakened eyes, they took revenge 

For past credulity in casting shame 

On my real knowledge, and I hated them — 

It was not strange I saw no good in man. 

To overbalance all the wear and waste 

Of faculties, displayed in vain, but born 

To prosper in some better sphere: and why? 

In my own heart love had not been made wise 

To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind. 

To know even hate is but a mask of love's. 

To see a good in evil, and a hope 

In ill-success; to sympathize, be proud 

Of their half -reasons, faint aspirings, dim 

[189] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies, 

Their prejudice, and fears, and cares, and doubts; 

Which all touch upon nobleness, despite 

Their error, all tend upwardly though weak, 

Like plants in mines which never saw the sun. 

But dream of him, and guess where he may be. 

And do their best to climb and get to him. 

All this I knew not, and I failed. Let men 

Regard me, and the poet dead long ago 

Who once loved rashly; and shape forth a third, 

And better tempered spirit, warned by both: 

As from the over-radiant star too mad 

To drink the light-springs, beamless thence itself — 

And the dark orb which borders the abyss. 

Engulfed in icy night — might have its course 

A temperate and equidistant world. 

Meanwhile, I have done well, though not all well. 

As yet men cannot do without contempt — 

'Tis for their good, and therefore fit awhile 

That they reject the weak, and scorn the false. 

Rather than praise the strong and true, in me. 

But after, they will know me! If I stoop 

Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, 

It is but for a time; I press God's lamp 

Close to my breast — its splendor, soon or late, 

Will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge one day! 

You understand me? I have said enough? 

Fest. Now die, dear Aureole! 

Par. Festus, let my hand 

This hand, lie in your own — my own true friend! 
Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile! 

Fest. And this was Paracelsus! 



190] 



GENERAL REVIEW OF THE POEM 



GENERAL REVIEW OF THE POEM 

Paracelsus 

The Poem 

Paracelsus Aspires 

Scene 1 

PARACELSUS, a student, and pupil of 
the learned Abbot Trithemius, resolves 
to give up the monastery cell and an- 
cient books, and go out into the world 
to seek knowledge of a wider sort. On the 
eve of his departure, he is talking with his 
friends Festus and the latter 's wife Michal. 

Par. Come close to me, dear friends; still closer; 
thus! 
Close to the heart which, though long time roll by 
Ere it again beat quicker, pressed to yours, 
As now it beats — perchance a long, long time — 
At least henceforth your memories shall make 
Quiet and fragrant as befits their home. 
Nor shall my memory want a home in yours — 
Alas, that it requires too well such free 
Forgiving love as shall embalm it there! 

[193] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

For if you would remember me aright — 
As I was born to be — you must forget 
All fitful, strange, and moody waywardness 
Which e'er confused my better spirit, to dwell 
Only on moments such as these, dear friends! 
— My heart no truer, but my words and ways 
More true to it: as Michal, some months hence. 
Will say, "this autumn was a pleasant time," 
For some few sunny days; and overlook 
Its bleak wind, hankering after pining leaves. 

Michal weeps at this, and in the next few 
lines that Paracelsus speaks, we have painted 
for us a landscape of exquisite charm. 

Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the less 

Your stained and drooping vines their grapes bow 

down, 
Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit, 
That apple-tree with a rare after-birth 
Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among! 
Then for the winds — what wind that ever raved 
Shall vex that ash that overlooks you both, 
So proud it wears its berries? Ah! at length. 
The old smile meet for her, the lady of this 
Sequestered nest! This kingdom, limited 
Alone by one old populous green wall, 
Tenanted by the ever-busy flies, 
Gray crickets, and shy lizards, and quick spiders. 
Each family of the silver-threaded moss — 
Which, look through, near, this way, and it appears 
A stubble-field, or a cane-brake — a marsh 
Of bulrush whitening in the sun: laugh now! 
Fancy the crickets, each one in his house. 
Looking out, wondering at the world — or best, 
Yon painted snail, with his gay shell of dew, 

[194] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

Traveling to see the glossy balls high up 
Hung by the caterpillar, like gold lamps! 

Both Festus and Michal are fearful of 
Paracelsus' methods of gaining wider knowl- 
edge; they advise him to seek it in the 
conventional way and not to venture into 
untried paths and places *' where God meant 
no man should intrude." But Paracelsus 
feels that these vast longings that fill his 
soul are proof of a commission from God. 
God's command must be fulfilled — new 
hopes, new light dawn on him; he is set 
apart for a great work. 

Festus says: "Such the aim, then, God set 
before you," presume not to serve him apart 
from the appointed channel as he wills shall 
gather imperfect tributes. 

Paracelsus answers: "No, I have nought 
to fear! Who will may know 

The secret'st workings of my soul." 

Be sure that God 
Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart! 
Ask the gier-eagle why she stoops at once 
Into the vast and unexplored abyss, 
What full-grown power informs her from the first. 
Why she not marvels, strenuously beating 
The silent boundless regions of the sky! 

Festus proves the true friend and cautious 
adviser when he says, "Call this truth .^ Why 

[195] 



BRO\^^NING S PARACELSUS 

not pursue it in a fast retreat, some one of 
Learning's many palaces after approved 
example?" Then Paracelsus, in what is one 
of the most pregnant passages of the poem, 
is made to tell of the development in him- 
self of cosmic consciousness.^ 

And I smiled as one never smiles but once; 

Then first discovering my own aim's extent, 

Which sought to comprehend the works of God, 

And God himself, and all God's intercourse 

With the human mind; I understood, no less. 

My fellow's studies, whose true worth I saw, 

But smiled not, well aware who stood by me. 

And softer came the voice — "There is a way — 

'Tis hard for flesh to tread therein, imbued 

With frailty — hopeless, if indulgence first 

Have ripened inborn germs of sin to strength: 

Wilt thou adventure for my sake and man's. 

Apart from all reward?" And last it breathed — 

"Be happy, my good soldier; I am by thee. 

Be sure, even to the end!" — I answered not. 

Knowing Him. As He spoke, I was endued 

With comprehension and a steadfast will; 

And when He ceased, my brow was sealed His own. 

If there took place no special change in me, 

How comes it all things wore a different hue 

Thenceforward ? — pregnant with vast consequence — 

Teeming with grand results — loaded with fate; 

* Cosmic consciousness or the enlargement of nature, is in 
contradistinction to the sense consciousness. In religion, it 
has been called the Baptism of the Holy Spirit. 

Walt Whitman, who had developed this consciousness, 
spoke of it in the same way : "All things wore a different hue — 
Everything in nature seemed so much grander." 

[196] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

So that when quaiUng at the mighty range 
Of secret truths which yearn for birth, I haste 
To contemplate undazzled some one truth, 
Its bearings and effects alone — at once 
What was a speck expands into a star. 
Asking a life to pass exploring thus. 
Till I near craze. I go to prove my soul! 
I see my way as birds their trackless way — 
I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first, 
I ask not: but unless God send his hail 
Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow. 
In some time — his good time — I shall arrive: 
He guides me and the bird. In his good time! 

His friends think this a delusion. Festus 

says : 

And yet 
As strong delusions have prevailed ere now: 
Men have set out as gallantly to seek 
Their ruin; I have heard of such — yourself 
Avow all hitherto have failed and fallen. 

To which Paracelsus answers in what is 
another and subtle passage of the poem : 

Aye, sounds it not like some old well-known tale? 

For me, I estimate their works and them 

So rightly, that at times I almost dream 

I too have spent a life the sages' way. 

And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance 

I perished in an arrogant self-reliance 

An age ago; and in that act, a prayer 

For one more chance went up so earnest, so 

Instinct with better light let in by Death, 

That life was blotted out — not so completely 

But scattered wrecks enough of it remain, 

[197] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Dim memories; as now, when seems once more 
The goal in sight again: all which, indeed, 
Is foolish, and only means — the flesh I wear. 
The earth I tread, are not more clear to me 
Than my belief, explained to you or no.^ 

Festus advises him that one who dares 
effect life's service to his kind, cannot thrive 
if cut off from them, unbound by any tie. 
That a being not knowing what love is, 
would be a monstrous spectacle on earth 
beneath the pleasant sun. He says: 

You are endowed with faculties which bear 

Annexed to them as 'twere a dispensation 

To summon meaner spirits to do their will. 

And gather round them at their need; inspiring 

Such with a love themselves can never feel — 

Passionless 'mid their passionate votaries. 

I know not if you joy in this or no. 

Or ever dream that common men can live 

On objects you prize lightly, but which make 

Their heart's sole treasure: the affections seem 

Beauteous at most to you, which we must taste 

Or die: and this strange quality accords, 

I know not how, with you; sits well upon 

That luminous brow, though in another it scowls 

An eating brand — a shame. I dare not judge you : 

The rules of right and wrong thus set aside. 

There's no alternative — I own you one 

Of higher order, under other laws 

Than bind us; therefore, curb not one bold glance! 

'Tis best aspire. Once mingled with us all. . . . 

^ This suggests Paracelsus' belief in the soul's past births. 

[198] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

And Michal in her gentle way beseeches 
him to give up such hopes and stay with 
them, tells him he is too proud, and says: 
"You will find all you seek, and perish so!" 
Paracelsus protests that he does not lightly 
disesteem the labors and precepts of old time 
and the love they so much praise — that he 
believes truth is within ourselves, that often 
hemmed in as it is by the gross flesh "a 
baffling and perverting carnal mesh." Know- 
ing then consists in opening a way "where 
the imprisoned splendor may escape." 

He believes then that in discovering the 

true laws by which the flesh accloys the 

spirit and how the soul might be set free 

alike in all, he was working, not against God, 

but with Him. 

See this soul of ours! 
How it strives weakly in the child, is loosed 
In manhood, clogged by sickness, back compelled 
By age and waste, set free at last by death; 
WTiy is it, jflesh enthralls it or enthrones? 
What is this flesh we have to penetrate? 
Oh, not alone when life flows still do truth 
And power emerge, but also when strange chance 
Ruffles its current; in unused conjuncture, 
When sickness breaks the body — hunger, watching. 
Excess, or languor — oftenest death's approach — 
Peril, deep joy, or woe. One man shall crawl 
Through life, surrounded with all stirring things. 
Unmoved — and he goes mad ; and from the wreck 

[199] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Of what he was, by his wild talk alone, 

You first collect how great a spirit he hid. 

Therefore, set free the soul alike in all, 

Discovering the true laws by which the flesh 

Bars in the spirit! We may not be doomed 

To cope with seraphs, but at least the rest 

Shall cope with us. Make no more giants, God! 

But elevate the race at once! We ask 

To put forth just our strength, our human strength. 

All starting fairly, all equipped alike. 

Gifted alike, all eagle-eyed, true-hearted — 

See if we cannot beat thy angels yet! 

Such is my task. I go to gather this 

The sacred knowledge, here and there dispersed 

About the world, long lost or never found. 

And why should I be sad, or lorn of hope? 

Why ever make man's good distinct from God's? 

Or, finding they are one, why dare mistrust? ^ 

He asks: 

Do you believe I shall accomplish this? 
Fest. I do believe! 
Mich. I ever did believe! 

^ This brings out Paracelsus' belief in the divine principle 
of man. He says, "The divine principle in man, which con- 
stitutes him a human being, and by which he is eminently 
distinguished from the animals, is not a product of the earth, 
nor is it generated by the animal kingdom, but it comes from 
God; it is God, and is immortal, because, coming from a 
divine source, it cannot be otherwise than divine. Man 
should, therefore, live in harmony with his divine parent, and 
not in the animal elements of his soul. 

"Man has an eternal Father, who sent him to reside and 
gain experience in the animal principles, but not for the pur- 
pose of being absorbed by them, because in the latter case 
man would become an animal, while the animal principle 
would have nothing to gain." 

[200] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

Par. Those words shall never fade from out my 
brain! 
This earnest of the end shall never fade! 
Are there not, Festus, are there not, dear Miehal, 
Two points in the adventure of the diver: 
One — when, a beggar, he prepares to plunge? 
One — when, a prince, he rises with his pearl? 
Festus, I plunge I 

FesU I wait you when you rise! 

Scene 2 
Paracelsus Attains 

Over the waters in the vaporous west 
The sun goes down as in a sphere of gold. 
Behind the outstretched city, which between. 
With all that length of domes and minarets. 
Athwart the splendor, black and crooked runs 
Like a Turk verse along a scimetar. 
There lie, thou saddest writing, and awhile 
Relieve my aching sight. 'Tis done at last! 
Strange — and the juggles of a sallow cheat 
Could win me to this act! 

The scene is laid in a Greek conjurer's 
house at Constantinople, nine years later. 
Paracelsus is mentally taking stock of the 
gains and losses of the past nine years. He 
has gained some knowledge, but on the 
whole he has not accomplished what he had 
hoped. He decides to learn by magic the 
knowledge he sought, but failed to learn 
otherwise. 

[201] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

He can seek no longer; his overwrought 
brain and overtasked body need rest, and he 
will have it even in failure. He consoles 
himself by thinking, at the worst he per- 
formed his share of the task, that the rest 
was God's concern, that he had subdued 
his life to the one purpose whereto he had 
ordained it. 

There was a time 
When yet this wolfish hunger after knowledge 
Set not remorselessly love's claims aside; 
This heart was human once, or why recall 
Einsiedeln, now, and Wiirzburg, which the Mayne 
Forsakes her course to fold as with an arm? 

But love and strength are gone now, and 
his life's one ambition, which has been all- 
absorbing, has not been realized. 

And yet 'tis surely much, 'tis very much. 
Thus to have emptied youth of all its gifts. 
To feed a fire meant to hold out till morn 
Arrive with inexhaustible light; and lo, 
I have heaped up my last, and day dawns not! 
While I am left with gray hair, faded hands. 
And furrowed brow. Ha, have I, after all. 
Mistaken the wild nursling of my breast? 
Knowledge it seemed, and Power, and Recompense! 
Was she who glided through my room of nights, — 
Who laid my head on her soft knees, and smoothed 
The damp locks, — whose sly soothings just began 
When my sick spirit craved repose awhile — 
God! was I fighting Sleep off for Death's sake? 

[202] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

God! Thou art Mind! Unto the Master-Mind 

Mind should be precious. Spare my mind alone! 

All else I will endure: if, as I stand 

Here, with my gains, thy thunder smite me down, 

I bow me; 'tis thy will, thy righteous will; 

I o'erpass life's restrictions, and I die: 

And if no trace of my career remain, 

Save a thin corpse at pleasure of the wind 

In these bright chambers, level with the air, 

See thou to it! But if my spirit fail. 

My once proud spirit forsake me at the last, 

Hast thou done well by me? So do not thou! 

Crush not my mind, dear God, though I be crushed! 

Hold me before the frequence of thy seraphs. 

And say — "I crushed him, lest he should disturb 

My law. Men must not know their strength: behold. 

Weak and alone, how near he raised himself!'* 

From within he hears a voice; it is that of 
Aprile, the spirit of a departed poet who was 
a lover of beauty and beauty alone — a soul 
immoderately possessed with the desire to 
love, as Paracelsus was with the desire to 
know. 

I hear a voice, perchance I heard 

Long ago, but all too low, 

So that scarce a thought was stirred 

If really spoke the voice or no: 

I heard it in my youth, when first 

The waters of my life outburst: 

But now their stream ebbs faint, I hear 

The voice, still low, but fatal-clear — 

As if all Poets, that God meant 

Should save the world, and therefore lent 

[203] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Great gifts to, but who, proud, refused 

To do his work, or lightly used 

Those gifts, or failed through weak endeavor. 

And mourn, cast ofiF by him forever, — 

As if these leaned in airy ring 

To call me; this the song they sing. 

"Lost, lost! yet come. 

With our wan troupe make thy home: 

Come, come! for we 

Will not breathe, so much as breathe 

Reproach to thee! 

Knowing what thou sink'st beneath; 

So we sank in those old years. 

We who bid thee, come! thou last 

Who, a living man, hast life o'erpast. 

And all together we, thy peers. 

Will pardon ask for thee, the last 

Whose trial is done, whose lot is cast 

With those who watch, but work no more — 

Who gaze on life, but live no more: 

And yet we trusted thou shouldst speak 

God's message which our lips, too weak. 

Refused to utter, — shouldst redeem 

Our fault: such trust, and all, a dream! 

So we chose thee a bright birth-place 

Where the richness ran to flowers — 

Couldst not sing one song for grace? 

Nor make one blossom man's and ours? 

Must one more recreant to his race 

Die with unexerted powers 

And join us, leaving as he found 

The world, he was to loosen, bound? 

Anguish! ever and for ever; 

Still beginning, ending never! 

Yet, lost and last one, come! 

[204] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

How couldst understand, alas, 

What our pale ghosts strove to say. 

As their shades did glance and pass 

Before thee, night and day? 

Thou wert blind, as we were dumb; 

Once more, therefore, come, O come! 

How shall we better arm the spirit 

Who next shall thy post of life inherit — 

How guard him from thy ruin? 

Tell us of thy sad undoing 

Here, where we sit, ever pursuing 

Our weary task, ever renewing 

Sharp sorrow, far from God who gave 

Our powers, and man they could not save!** 

Paracelsus demands that Aprile acknowl- 
edge him as king and do obeisance to him, 
but Aprile refuses to acknowledge the king- 
ship of one who knows not the beauties of 
nature. 

Paracelsus: 

Be calm, I charge thee, by thy fealty! 

Tell me what thou wouldst be, and what I am. 

Aprile: 

I would love infinitely, and be loved. 
First: I would carve in stone, or cast in brass. 
The forms of earth. No ancient hunter, raised 
Up to the gods by his renown; no nymph 
Supposed the sweet soul of a woodland tree, 
Or sapphirine spirit of a twilight star. 
Should be too hard for me; no shepherd-king, 
Regal with his white locks; no youth who stands 
Silent and very calm amid the throng, 

[205] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

His right hand ever hid beneath his robe 

Until the tyrant pass; no law-giver; 

No swan-soft woman, rubbed with lucid oils. 

Given by a god for love of her — too hard ! 

Each passion sprung from man, conceived by man. 

Would I express and clothe it in its right form. 

Or blend with others struggling in one form. 

Or show repressed by an ungainly form. 

For, if you marveled at some mighty spirit 

With a fit frame to execute his will — 

Aye, even unconsciously to work his will — 

You should be moved no less beside some strong. 

Rare spirit, fettered to a stubborn body, 

Endeavoring to subdue it, and inform it 

With its own splendor! All this I would do. 

And I would say, this done, "God's sprites being 

made. 
He grants to each a sphere to be its world. 
Appointed with the various objects needed 
To satisfy its spiritual desires; 
So, I create a world for these my shapes 
Fit to sustain their beauty and their strength!'* 
And, at their word, I would contrive and paint 
Woods, valleys, rocks, and plains, dells, sands, and 

wastes. 
Lakes which, when morn breaks on their quivering 

bed. 
Blaze like a wyvern flying round the sun; 
And ocean-isles so small, the dog-fish tracking 
A dead whale, who should find them, would swim 

thrice 
Around them, and fare onward — all to hold 
The offspring of my brain. Nor these alone — 
Bronze labyrinths, palace, pyramid, and crypt. 
Baths, galleries, courts, temples, and terraces. 
Marts, theaters, and wharfs — all filled with men ! 

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REVIEW OF THE POEM 

Men everywhere! And this performed in turn, 
When those who looked on, pined to hear the hopes. 
And fears, and hates, and loves which moved the 

crowd, — 
I would throw down the pencil as the chisel, 
And I would speak: no thought which ever stirred 
A human breast should be untold; no passions. 
No soft emotions, from the turbulent stir 
Within a heart fed with desires like mine — 
To the last comfort, shutting the tired lids 
Of him who sleeps the sultry noon away 
Beneath the tent-tree by the way-side well: 
And this in language as the need should be. 
Now poured at once forth in a burning flow. 
Now piled up in a grand array of words. 
This done, to perfect and consummate all. 
Even as a luminous haze links star to star, 
I would supply all chasms with music, breathing 
Mysterious notions of the soul, no way 
To be defined save in strange melodies. 
Last, having thus revealed all I could love. 
And having received all love bestowed on it, 
I would die: so preserving through my course 
God full on me, as I was full on men: 
And He would grant my prayer — "I have gone 

through 
All loveliness of life; make more for me. 
If not for men — or take me to thyself. 
Eternal, infinite Love!'* 

If thou hast ne*er 
Conceived this mighty aim, this full desire. 
Thou hast not passed my trial, and thou art 
No king of mine. 

Paracelsus now realizes the error into 
which they both fell, that they were halves 

[207] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

of a dissevered world, and learning now in 
what he failed, he feels that he has attained. 
Paracelsus: 

Love me henceforth, Aprile, while I learn 
To love; and, merciful God, forgive us both! 
We wake at length from weary dreams; but both 
Have slept in fairy-land: though dark and drear 
Appears the world before us, we no less 
Wake with our wrists and ankles jeweled still. 
I, too, have sought to know as thou to love — 
Excluding love as thou refusedst knowledge. 
Still thou hast beauty and I, power. We wake: 
What penance canst devise for both of us? 



Scene 3 

A Chamber in the House of Paracelsus 
AT Basel, Five Years Later 

Par. Heap logs, and let the blaze laugh out! 

Fest True, true! 

*Tis very fit that all, time, chance, and change 
Have wrought since last we sate thus, face to face. 
And soul to soul — all cares, far-looking fears. 
Vague apprehensions, all vain fancies bred 
By your long absence, should be cast away. 
Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal 
Of our affections. 

Festus on his way from Wittenberg, where 
he carried news to Luther, stops at Basel to 
ask the pleasure of (Ecolampadius concern- 
ing certain missives sent to him and Zuinglius. 

[208] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

He learned from (Ecolampadius that the fa- 
mous teacher at the University was his friend, 
"the wondrous Paracelsus, life's dispenser, 
fate's commissary, idol of the schools and 
courts." Together they talk over the old 
days at Wiirzburg. The only change is 
Michal's added grace of motherhood. Fes- 
tus speaks of his children and his hopes for 
his boy whom he has named Aureole after 
his friend. He tells Paracelsus how kind he 
is in showing interest in his quiet life, "you, 
who of old could never tame yourself to 
tranquil pleasures." 
Paracelsus answers: 

Festus, strange secrets are let out by Death, 
Who blabs so oft the folHes of this world: 
And I am Death's familiar, as you know. 
I helped a man to die, some few weeks since. 
Warped even from his go-cart to one end — 
The living on princes' smiles, reflected from 
A mighty herd of favorites. No mean trick 
He left untried; and truly well nigh wormed 
All traces of God's finger out of him. 
Then died, grown old; and just an hour before — 
Having lain long with blank and soulless eyes — 
He sate up suddenly, and with natural voice 
Said, that in spite of thick air and closed doors 
God told him it was June; and he knew well. 
Without such telling, hare-bells grew in June; 
And all that kings could ever give or take 
Would not be precious as those blooms to him. 

[209] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Festus has heard Paracelsus lecture from 
his professor's chair; has seen the number of 
eager listeners, has gathered from their faces 
and murmurs full corroboration of his hopes 
— his pupils worship him. Paracelsus ad- 
mits his outward success, but confides to his 
friend his disappointment and his misery. 

He aspired to know God; he attained a 
professorship at Basel. He has worked cer- 
tain cures by drugs he has discovered; he has 
patents, licenses, diplomas, titles from Ger- 
many, France, Spain, and Italy, and that 
which he values most of all, the acknowledg- 
ment of his ability from Erasmus of Rotter- 
dam. Yet he feels in all this the turning to 
most account, the mere wreck of the past. 
He says: 

Well, then: you know my hopes 
I am assured, at length, those hopes were vain; 
That truth is just as far from me as ever; 
That I have thrown my Hfe away; that sorrow 
On that account is vain, and further effort 
To mend and patch what's marred beyond repairing, 
As useless: and all this was taught to me 
By the convincing, good old-fashioned method 
Of force — by sheer compulsion. Is that plain? 

He has fallen in his self-esteem; he is now 
ambitionless. 

"I simply know 

[210] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

I am no master here, but trained and beaten 
Into the path I tread." 

He feels that he has preceded his age, and 
has become intolerant of the teachings of 
those who had worked on the same path 
before him. He has burned in public the 
books of Aetius, Oribasius, Galen, Rhases, 
Serapion, Avicenna, Averroes.^ 
Festus : 

One favor. 
And I have done. I leave you, deeply moved; 
Unwilling to have fared so well, the while 
My friend has changed so sorely: if this mood 
Shall pass away — if Hght once more arise 
Where all is darkness now — if you see fit 
To hope, and trust again, and strive again; 
You will remember — not our love alone — 
But that my faith in God's desire for man 
To trust on his support (as I must think 
You trusted) is obscured and dim through you; 
For you are thus, and this is no reward. 
Will you not call me to your side, dear friend? 

1 That modern science owes much to the labors and re- 
searches of Paracelsus has been but lately understood. 



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browning s paracelsus 

Scene 4 

Two Years Later 

Paracelsus to Johannes Oporinus, his sec- 
retary: "Such is the way to immortahty ! " 

Dear Von Visenburg 
Is scandalized, and poor Torinus paralyzed. 
And every honest soul that Basel holds 
Aghast; and yet we live, as one may say, 
Just as though Liechtenfels had never set 
So true a value on his sorry carcass. 
And learned Piitter had not frowned us dumb. 
We live; and shall as surely start to-morrow 
For Nuremberg, as we drink speedy scathe 
To Basel in this mantling wine, suffused 
With a delicate blush — no fainter tinge is born 
I' th' shut heart of a bud : pledge me, good John — 
" Basel; a hot plague ravage it, with Putter 
To stop the plague! '* Even so? Do you too share 
Their panic — the reptiles? 

Paracelsus has been forced to leave Basel; 
with his secretary he is at an inn at Colmar, 
in Alsatia. He has sent for his friend Festus 
to tell him of his exposure as an egregious 
quack — about his being cast off by those 
who lately worshiped him, and how when he 
tried to teach, not amaze them ' to impart 
the spirit which should instigate the secret of 
truth," he found himself with an empty class- 
room, how the faculty turned their backs on 

[212] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

him when they found their conservative 
methods interfered with, and how he had 
saved the Hfe of a church dignitary, Liech- 
tenfels by name, who not only refused to 
pay his fee, but made Basel impossible for 
him. Festus asks his plans for the future, 
to which Paracelsus answers: 

But I, but I — now Festus shall divine! 
— Am merely setting out in life once more. 
Embracing my old aims! What thinks he how? 



The aims — not the old means. You know what made 

me 
A laughing-stock; I was a fool; you know 
The when and the how: hardly those means again! 
Not but they had their beauty — who should know 
Their passing beauty, if not I? But still 
They were dreams, so let them vanish: yet in beauty. 
If that may be. Stay — thus they pass in song! 

{He sings.) 

Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes 
Of labdanum, and aloe-balls 

Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes 
From out her hair: (such balsam falls 
Down sea-side mountain pedestals, 

From summits where tired winds are fain. 

Spent with the vast and howling main. 

To treasure half their island-gain). 

And strew faint sweetness from some old 
Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud, 

[2131 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; 
And shred dim perfume, like a cloud 
From chamber long to quiet vowed. 
With mothed and dropping arras hung, 
Moldering the lute and books among 
Of queen, long dead, who lived there young. 

And so he is going to set out once more 
with the old aims but not the same methods; 
he is going to hve his Hfe out seeking knowl- 
edge gained through joy, and believing joy 
should be linked to knowledge. He acknowl- 
edges his degraded appetites and his base 
delights. Festus warns him that the de- 
lights that supersede his nobler aims will 
never content him. Paracelsus declares that 
he has cast away all remorseless care that 
clogged his spirit, born to soar so free, and 
he sings the song: 

Over the sea our galleys went. 
With cleaving prows in order brave. 
To a speeding wind and a bounding wave — 

A gallant armament: 
Each bark built out of a forest-tree. 

Left leafy and rough as first it grew. 
And nailed all over the gaping sides. 
Within and without, with black-bull hides. 
Seethed in fat and suppled in flame. 
To bear the playful billows' game; 
So each good ship was rude to see. 
Rude and bare to the outward view. 

But each upbore a stately tent; 

[ 214 j 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

Where cedar-pales in scented row 
Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine: 
And an awning drooped the mast below. 
In fold on fold of the purple fine, 
That neither noon-tide, nor star-shine. 
Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad. 

Might pierce the regal tenement. 
When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad 
We set the sail and phed the oar; 
But when the night-wind blew like breath 
For joy of one day's voyage more. 
We sang together on the wide sea, 
Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; 
Each sail was loosed to the wind so free. 
Each helm made sure by the twilight star. 
And in a sleep as calm as death. 
We, the strangers from afar. 

Lay, stretched along, each weary crew 
Li a circle round its wondrous tent. 
Whence gleamed soft hght and curled rich scent. 

And with light and perfume, music too: 
So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past. 
And at morn we started beside the mast. 
And still each ship was saihng fast! 

One morn, the land appeared! — a speck 
Dim trembhng betwixt sea and sky. 
"Avoid it," cried our pilot, "check 
The shout, restrain the longing eye!" 
But the heaving sea was black behind 
For many a night and many a day. 
And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; 
So we broke the cedar-pales away. 
Let the purple awning flap in the wind. 

And a statue bright was on every deck! 
We shouted, every man of us, 

[215] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

And steered right into the harbor thus. 
With pomp and paean glorious. 

An hundred shapes of lucid stone! 

All day we built a shrine for each — 
A shrine of rock for every one — 
Nor paused we till in the westering sun 

We sate together on the beach 
To sing, because our task was done; 
When lo! what shouts and merry songs! 
What laughter all the distance stirs! 
What raft comes loaded with its throngs 
Of gentle islanders? 
"The isles are just at hand," they cried; 

"Like cloudlets faint at even sleeping, 
Our temple-gates are opened wide. 

Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping 
For the lucid shapes you bring" — they cried. 
Oh, then we woke with sudden start 
From our deep dream; we knew, too late. 
How bare the rock, how desolate, 
To which we had flung our precious freight: 

Yet we called out — "Depart! 
Our gifts, once given, must here abide: 

Our work is done; we have no heart 
To mar our work, though vain" — we cried. 

Festus, alarmed at his impiety, beseeches 
him to renounce the past and give up the 
future, and to return with him to Einsiedeln 
and wait death amidst holy sights. Paracel- 
sus declares that his lusts forbid such a thing, 
that he feels sneering devils possess him. He 
has sunken to the lowest depths. Festus 

[216] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

advises him kindly and again asks him to 
return to Einsiedeln with him; he tells him 
of his wife's, Michal's, death, which seems to 
rouse Paracelsus, and here he expresses his 
belief in the immortality of the soul. 

Par. Stone dead! — then you have laid her 
Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know, 
I can reveal a secret which shall comfort 
Even you. I have no julep, as men think. 
To cheat the grave; but a far better secret. 
Know then, you did not ill to trust your love 
To the cold earth: I have thought much of it: 
For I believe we do not wholly die. 

Fest. Aureole . . . 

Par. Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason 

For what I say : I think the soul can never 
Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see , 
Very unfit to put so strange a thought 
In an intelligible dress of words; 
But take it as my trust, she is not dead. 

Fest. But not on this account alone? you surely, 
— Aureole, you have believed this all along .f^ 

Par. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews. 
While I am moved at Basel, and full of schemes 
For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing, 
As though it mattered how the farce plays out. 
So it be quickly played. Away, away! 
Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize. 
Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats. 
And leave a clear arena for the brave 
About to perish for your sport! — Behold! 



[217] 



browning s paracelsus 

Scene 5 
Paracelsus Attains 

Salzburg, a cell in the hospital at St. Sebas- 
tian, thirteen years later. 

Paracelsus lies dying. His faithful friend 
Festus is by his side, and as he watches, he 
sends up this prayer: 

God! Thou art Love! I build my faith on that! 

Even as I watch beside thy tortured child. 

Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him. 

So doth thy right hand guide us through the world 

Wherein we stumble. God! what shall we say? 

How has he sinned? How else should he have done? 

Surely he sought thy praise — thy praise, for all 

He might be busied by the task so much 

As to forget awhile its proper end. 

Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer 

That I should range myself upon his side — 

How could he stop at every step to set 

Thy glory forth? Hadst Thou but granted him 

Success, thy honor would have crowned success, 

A halo round a star. Or, say he erred — 

Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe him 

In light and life! Thou art not made like us; 

We should be wroth in such a case; but Thou 

Forgivest — so, forgive these passionate thoughts. 

Which come unsought, and will not pass away! 

I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made 

Light for me in the darkness — tempering sorrow. 

So that it reached me like a solemn joy; 

It were too strange that I should doubt thy love: 

[218] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

But what am I? Thou madest him, and knowest 
How he was fashioned. I could never err 
That way: the quiet place beside thy feet. 
Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts; 
But he — Thou shouldst have favored him as well! 

Paracelsus now wakens. Festus uses vari- 
ous means to make himself known, and tries 
to rouse physical consciousness. Paracel- 
sus, in his semi-delirium, goes over the old 
trouble at Basel; the scorn that was heaped 
upon him when they called him quack, cheat, 
and liar. He is still seeking love, but she 
eludes him, "but she fades, still fades," 
sweet human love is gone. He dreams of 
Aprile. He prays God for one hour of the 
supernatural consciousness of strength that 
fed his youth to set his heart on God and 
love. He now with a clearer consciousness 
recognizes Festus, who assures him that God 
will take him to his breast, and that splendor 
shall sit upon his name on earth for ever. 
Then Festus sings the song: 

Softly the Mayne river glideth 
Close by where my love abideth; 
Sleep's no softer: it proceeds 
On through lawns, on through meads. 
On and on, whate'er befall. 
Meandering and musical, 
Though the niggard pasture's edge 
Bears not on its shaven ledge 

[219] 



browning's PARACELSUS 

Aught but weeds and waving grasses 
To view the river as it passes. 
Save here and there a scanty patch 
Of primroses, too faint to catch 
A weary bee . . . 

Par. More, more; say on! 

Fest. The river pushes 

Its gentle way through strangHng rushes. 
Where the glossy king-fisher 
Flutters when noon-heats are near. 
Glad the shelving banks to shun, 
Red and steaming in the sun, 
Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat 
Burrows, and the speckled stoat. 
Where the quick sand-pipers flit 
In and out the marl and grit 
That seems to breed them, brown as they. 
Nought disturbs the river's way. 
Save some lazy stork that springs. 
Trailing it with legs and wings, 
Whom the shy fox from the hill 
Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. 

These simple words seem to arouse in 
Paracelsus full consciousness: he wishes to 
speak; he will arise, he will not speak from 
a couch: 

Speak from a couch? I never lectured thus. 
My gown — the scarlet, lined with fur; now put 
The chain about my neck; my signet-ring 
Is still upon my hand, I think — even so; 
Last, my good sword; ha, trusty Azoth, leapest 
Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time? 
This couch shall be my throne: I bid these walls 

[ 220 1 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

Be consecrate; this wretched cell become 

A shrine; for here God speaks to men through me! 

Then we have Paracelsus' dying speech 
which has been said, and justly, to contain 
some of the most beautiful passages in the 
English language as well as a foreshadowing 
of the science which to-day is dawning on 
the horizon of humanity. 

Par. Yes, it was in me; I was born for it — 
I, Paracelsus: it was mine by right. 
Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul 
Might learn from its own motions that some task 
Like this awaited it about the world; 
Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours 
For fit delights to stay its longings vast; 
And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her 
To fill the creature full she dared to frame 
Hungry for joy; and, bravely tyrannous, 
Grow in demand, still craving more and more. 
And make each joy conceded prove a pledge 
Of other joy to follow — bating nought 
Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretense 
To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung 
As an extreme, last boon, from Destiny, 
Into occasion for new covetings, 

New strifes, new triumphs: — doubtless a strong soul 
Alone, unaided might attain to this. 
So glorious is our nature, so august 
Man's inborn uninstructed impulses. 
His naked spirit so majestical! 
But this was born in me; I was made so; 
Thus much time saved: the feverish appetites. 
The tumult of unproved desires, the unaimed 

[221] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind, 
Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears 
Were saved me; thus I entered on my course! 
You may be sure I was not all exempt 
From human trouble; just so much of doubt 
As bade me plant a surer foot upon 
The sun-road — kept my eye unruined mid 
The fierce and flashing splendor — set my heart 
Trembling so much as warned me I stood there 
On sufferance — not to idly gaze, but cast 
Light on a darkling race; save for that doubt, 
I stood at first where all aspire at last 
To stand; the secret of the world was mine. 
I knew, I felt (perception unexpressed, 
Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, 
But somehow felt and known in every shift 
And change in spirit — nay, in every pore 
Of the body, even) — what God is, what we are. 
What life is — how God tastes an infinite joy 
In infinite ways — one everlasting bliss. 
From whom all being emanates, all power 
Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore. 
Yet whom existence in its lowest form 
Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is He! 
With still a flying point of bliss remote, 
A happiness in store afar, a sphere 
Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs 
Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever! 
The center-fire heaves underneath the earth,* 

* Of the passage beginning with this line and ending with 
"His ancient rapture," Mr. Sharp, in his "Life of Robert Brown- 
ing," says: ''And where in modern poetry is there a superber 
union of the scientific and the poetic vision than in this mag- 
nificent passage — the quintessence of the poet's conception 
of the rapture of life." 

In these lines, particularly in their close, is manifest the 

[222] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

And the earth changes like a human face; 

The molten ore bursts up among the rocks. 

Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright 

In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, 

Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask — 

God joys therein! The wroth sea's waves are edged 

With foam, white as the bitten lip of Hate, 

When in the solitary, waste, strange groups 

Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like. 

Staring together with their eyes on flame; — 

God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride! 

Then all is still: earth is a wintry clod; 

But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes 

Over its breast to waken it; rare verdure 

Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between 

The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost. 

Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; 

The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with 

blooms. 
Like chrysalids impatient for the air; 
The shining dorrs are busy; beetles run 
Along the furrows, ants make their ado; 
Above, birds fly in merry flocks — the lark 
Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; 
Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls 
Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe 
Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek 
Their loves in wood and plain; and God renews 
His ancient rapture! Thus he dwells in all ,2 

influence of the noble Hebraic poetry. It must have been 
at this period that Browning conned over and over with an 
exultant delight the simple but lordly diction of Isaiah and 
the other prophets, preferring this Biblical poetry to that 
even of his beloved Greeks. 

2 The passage beginning here and ending with the line on 
page 227, "Who should be saved by them and joined with 

[223] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

From life's minute beginnings, up at last 

To man — the consummation of this scheme 

Of being, the completion of this sphere 

Of life: whose attributes had here and there 

Been scattered o'er the visible world before. 

Asking to be combined — dim fragments meant 

To be united in some wondrous whole — 

Imperfect qualities throughout creation, 

Suggesting some one creature yet to make — 

Some point where all those scattered rays should meet 

Convergent in the faculties of man. 

Power; neither put forth bhndly, nor controlled 

Calmly by perfect knowledge; to be used 

At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear: 

Knowledge; not intuition, but the slow 

Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil. 

Strengthened by love: love; not serenely pure, 

them," brings out so well Paracelsus' knowledge of the 
Secret Doctrine, and his understanding of the cosmic order 
of the universe. He says: "Man, as such, is the highest 
being in existence, because in him Nature has reached the 
culmination of her evolutionary efforts. In him are con- 
tained all the powers and all the substances that exist in the 
world, and he constitutes a world of his own. In him wis- 
dom may become manifest, and the powers of his soul — good 
as well as evil — may be developed to an extent little dreamed 
of by our speculative philosophers." " In him are contained 
all the Coelestia, Terrestria, Undosa, and Aeria" — that is to 
say, all the forces and beings and forms that may be found 
in the four elements out of which the Universe is constructed. 
Man is the Microcosm containing in himself the types of all 
the creatures that exist in the world, " and it is a great truth, 
which you should seriously consider, that there is nothing in 
heaven or upon earth which does not also exist in Man, and 
God who is in heaven, exists also in man, and the two are 
but One." "Man is a being and contains many beings within 
his constitution; nevertheless he is only one individual. These 

[2U] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown plant 

Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds. 

And softer stains, unknown in happier climes; 

Love which endures, and doubts, and is oppressed. 

And cherished, suffering much, and much sustained, 

A blind, oft-failing, yet believing love, 

A half-enlightened, often-checkered trust: — 

Hints and previsions of which faculties. 

Are strewn confusedly everywhere about 

The inferior natures; and all lead up higher. 

All shape out dimly the superior race, 

The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false. 

And Man appears at last: so far the seal 

Is put on life; one stage of being complete, 

One scheme wound up; and from the grand result 

A supplementary reflux of light, 

Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains 

Each back step in the circle. Not alone 

beings within him are himself, and yet they are not his true 
self. They are many distinct lives within one life, and in the 
same sense there are many deities in the world, but only one 
God. Each man in his capacity as a member of the great 
organism of the world can be truly known only if looked upon 
in his connection with universal Nature, and not as a sepa- 
rate being isolated from Nature. Man is dependent for his 
existence on Nature, and the state of Nature depends on the 
condition of mankind as a whole. If we know Nature, we 
know Man, and if we know Man, we know Nature." " Whoever 
desires to be a practical philosopher ought to be able to indi- 
cate heaven and hell in the Microcosm, and to find everything 
in Man that exists in heaven or upon the earth; so that the 
corresponding things of the one and the other appear to him 
as one, separated by nothing else but the form. He must be 
able to turn the exterior into the interior, but this is an art 
which he can only acquire by experience and by the light of 
Nature, which is shining before the eyes of every man, but 
which is seen by few." 

[225] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

For their possessor dawn those quahties, 

But the new glory mixes with the heaven 

And earth: Man, once descried, imprints forever 

His presence on all lifeless things; the winds 

Are henceforth voices, in a wail or shout, 

A querulous mutter, or a quick gay laugh — 

Never a senseless gust now man is born! 

The herded pines commune, and have deep thoughts, 

A secret they assemble to discuss. 

When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare 

Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat 

Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph 

Swims bearing high above her head: no bird 

Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above 

That let light in upon the gloomy woods, 

A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top, 

Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye: 

The morn has enterprise — deep quiet droops 

With evening; triumph takes the sun-set hour. 

Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn 

Beneath a warm moon like a happy face: 

— And this to fill us with regard for man, 

With apprehension for his passing worth. 

Desire to work his proper nature out, 

And ascertain his rank and final place; 

For these things tend still upward — progress is 

The law of life — man's self is not yet Man! 

Nor shall I deem his object served, his end 

Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth. 

While only here and there a star dispels 

The darkness, here and there a towering mind 

O'erlooks its prostrate fellows: when the host 

Is out at once to the despair of night. 

When all mankind alike is perfected. 

Equal in full-blown powers — then, not till then, 

I say, begins man's general infancy! 

[226] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

For wherefore make account of feverish starts 

Of restless members of a dormant whole — 

Impatient nerves which quiver while the body 

Slumbers as in a grave? O, long ago 

The brow was twitched, the tremulous lids astir. 

The peaceful mouth disturbed; half-uttered speech 

Ruffled the lip, and then the teeth were set, 

The breath drawn sharp, the strong right-hand 

clenched stronger. 
As it would pluck a lion by the jaw; 
The glorious creature laughed out even in sleep! 
But when full roused, each giant-limb awake, 
Each sinew strung, the great heart pulsing fast. 
He shall start up, and stand on his own earth. 
And so begin his long triumphant march. 
And date his being thence — thus wholly roused. 
What he achieves shall be set down to him! 
When all the race is perfected alike 
As Man, that is: all tended to mankind, 
And, man produced, all has its end thus far; 
But in completed man begins anew 
A tendency to God. Prognostics told 
Man's near approach; so in man's self arise 
August anticipations, symbols, types 
Of a dim splendor ever on before. 
In that eternal circle run by life: 
For men begin to pass their nature's bound. 
And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant 
Their proper joys and griefs; and outgrow all 
The narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade 
Before the unmeasured thirst for good; while peace 
Rises within them ever more and more. 
Such men are even now upon the earth. 
Serene amid the half-formed creatures round. 
Who should be saved by them and joined with them. 
Such was my task, and I was born to it — 

[227] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Free, as I said but now, from much that chahis 

Spirits, high-dowered, but hmited and vexed 

By a divided and delusive aim, 

A shadow mocking a reahty 

Whose truth avails not wholly to disperse 

The flitting mimic called up by itself. 

And so remains perplexed and nigh put out 

By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam. 

I, from the first, was never cheated so; 

I never fashioned out a fancied good 

Distinct from man's; a service to be done, 

A glory to be ministered unto, 

With powers put forth at man's expense, withdrawn 

From laboring in his behalf; a strength 

Denied that might avail him! I cared not 

Lest his success ran counter to success 

Elsewhere: for God is glorified in man. 

And to man's glory, vowed I soul and limb. 

Yet, constituted thus, and thus endowed, 

I failed : I gazed on power till I grew blind — 

On power; I could not take my eyes from that — 

That only, I thought, should be preserved, increased 

At any risk, displayed, struck out at once — 

The sign, and note, and character of man. 

I saw no use in the past: only a scene 

Of degradation, imbecility — 

The record of disgraces best forgotten, 

A sullen page in human chronicles 

Fit to erase: I saw no cause why man 

Should not be all-suflacient even now; 

Or why his annals should be forced to tell 

That once the tide of light, about to break 

Upon the world, was sealed within its spring; 

I would have had one day, one moment's space. 

Change man's condition, push each slumbering claim 

To mastery o'er the elemental world 

[228] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

At once to full maturity, then roll 

Oblivion o'er the tools, and hide from man. 

What night had ushered morn. Not so, dear child 

Of after-days, wilt thou reject the Past, 

Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure 

By which thou hast the earth: the Present for thee 

Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen 

Beside that Past's own shade, whence, in relief. 

Its brightness shall stand out: nor on thee yet 

Shall burst the Future, as successive zones 

Of several wonder open on some spirit 

Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven; 

But thou shalt painfully attain to joy. 

While hope, and fear, and love, shall keep thee man! 

All this was hid from me: as one by one 

My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed. 

As actual good within my reach decreased. 

While obstacles sprung up this way and that. 

To keep me from effecting half the sum, 

Small as it proved; as objects, mean within 

The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least. 

Itself a match for my concentered strength — 

What wonder if I saw no way to shun 

Despair? The power I sought for man, seemed God's! 

In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die, 

A strange adventure made me know. One Sin 

Had spotted my career from its uprise; 

I saw Aprile — my Aprile there! 

And as the poor melodious wretch disburthened 

His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear, 

I learned my own deep error; love's undoing 

Taught me the worth of love in man's estate. 

And what proportion love should hold with power 

In his right constitution; love preceding 

Power, and with much power, always much more love; 

Love still too straitened in its present means, 

[229] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

And earnest for new power to set it free. 

I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned: 

And thus, when men received with stupid wonder 

My first revealings, would have worshiped me. 

And I despised and loathed their proffered praise — 

When, with awakened eyes, they took revenge 

For past credulity in casting shame 

On my real knowledge, and I hated them — 

It was not strange I saw no good in man. 

To overbalance all the wear and waste 

Of faculties, displayed in vain, but born 

To prosper in some better sphere: and why? 

In my own heart love had not been made wise 

To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind. 

To know even hate is but a mask of love's. 

To see a good in evil, and a hope 

In ill-success; to sympathize, be proud 

Of their half -reasons, faint aspirings, dim 

Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies. 

Their prejudice, and fears, and cares, and doubts; 

Which all touch upon nobleness, despite 

Their error, all tend upwardly though weak, 

Like plants in mines which never saw the sun. 

But dream of him, and guess where he may be, 

And do their best to climb and get to him. 

All this I knew not, and I failed. Let men 

Regard me, and the poet dead long ago 

Who once loved rashly; and shape forth a third, 

And better tempered spirit, warned by both: 

As from the over-radiant star too mad 

To drink the light-springs, beamless thence itself — 

And the dark orb which borders the abyss. 

Engulfed in icy night — might have its course 

A temperate and equidistant world. 

Meanwhile, I have done well, though not all well. 

As yet men cannot do without contempt — 

[230] 



REVIEW OF THE POEM 

'Tis for their good, and therefore fit awhile 
That they reject the weak, and scorn the false, 
Rather than praise the strong and true, in me. 
But after, they will know me! If I stoop 
Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud. 
It is but for a time; I press God's lamp 
Close to my breast — its splendor, soon or late. 
Will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge one day! 
You understand me? I have said enough? 

Fest. Now die, dear Aureole! 

Par. Festus, let my hand 

This hand, lie in your own — my own true friend ! 
Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile! 

Fest. And this was Paracelsus! 



[231] 



GLOSSARY 



GLOSSARY 



Notes to Scene 1 

Wtirzburg : The capital of Lower Franconia, Bavaria, 
situated on the Main. The University of Wtirzburg was 
founded in 1403, but was soon discontinued, and was refounded 
in 1582. It became noted especially for its medical depart- 
ment. 

Trithemius of Spanheim was abbot of WUrzburg, and was 
a great astrologer and alchemist. 

Einsiedeln: A town in the canton of Schwyz, Switzerland, 
twenty-two miles east of Lucerne. It is one of the most 
celebrated of pilgrim resorts. The monastery was founded in 
the ninth century, and in 1294 received the standing of a 
principality from the emperor Rudolph. In its portraits, 
library, and material resources, the venerable monastery is 
still rich. 

Zwingli was a priest here in 1515-19, and not far from the 
town is the house where Paracelsus was bom. Population 
in 1888 was 8506. 

Gier-eagle: A vulture. A bird mentioned in the author- 
ized version of Leviticus xi. 18 (vulture in the revised ver- 
sion), supposed to be the Neophron percnopterus. 

The Stagirite: Aristotle, who was born at Stagira in 
Macedon. 

Notes to Scene 2 

"A Turk verse along a scimitar." The Arabic, Persian, 
and Turkish letters lend themselves well to decorative pur- 



[235 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

poses. The Arabs use verses and quotations from the Koran 
for decorating their homes, pottery, and arms, etc. 

Arch-genethliac: A genethliac is a caster of nativities — 
an astrologer. 

Notes to Scene 3 

Rhasis or Rhazes: Bom at Raj, Persia: died about 932. 
An Arabian physician, author of an encyclopedia on medicine. 

CEcolampadius: A Divinity Professor at Basel. 

Castellanus: A French prelate who was bishop of Tulle 
in 1539, of MaQon in 1544, and of Orleans in 1551. While 
at Basel he was corrector of the press with Frobenius. 

Munsterus: A Christian socialist connected with the 
Peasants' War; executed 1525. 

Frobenius was a famous printer at Basel. He was a friend 
of Erasmus. 

"Cross-grained devil in my sword." This famous sword of 
Paracelsus was no laughing matter in those days, and it is 
now a material feature in the popular idea of Paracelsus. 

Bumbastus kept a devil's bird. 
Shut in the pummel of his sword, 
That taught him all the cunning pranks 
Of past and future mountebanks. 

Hudibras, Part II, Cant. 3. 

The mysterious power of the sword was thought to be in 
Azoth or " laudanum suum," which he usually carried with 
him, and with which he worked wonderful cures. 

"Sudary of the Virgin:" A handkerchief, relic of the Virgin 
Mary. 

Erasmus: Bom at Rotterdam about 1465: died at Basel, 
1536. A famous Dutch classical and theological scholar and 
satirist. He aimed to reform without dismembering the 
Roman Catholic Church, and at first favored, but subse- 
quently opposed the Reformation, and engaged in a contro- 
versy with Luther. 

[236] 



GLOSSARY OF WORDS 

Proeclare! Optime/ Bravo! Well done! 

Aetius: Bom at Amida, Mesopotamia: flourished about 
500 A.D. A Greek writer, author of a medical work in six- 
teen books (Latin translation, 1542). Though essentially a 
compilation, it is one of the most valuable books of antiquity 
on medicine. 

Oribasius: Court physician of Julian the Apostate 
(325-403). 

Galen: Born at Pergamum, Mysia, about 130 a.d. A 
celebrated Greek physician and philosophical writer. 

Serapion: An Alexandrian physician. 

Avicenna: The most celebrated Arabian physician and 
philosopher. Surnamed "Prince of Physicians." Bom at 
Afshena, Bokhara, 980: died at Hamadan, Persia, 1037. 

Averroes: Bom at Cordova about 1120 or 1126. Died 
at Morocco, 1198. A distinguished Spanish-Arabian philoso- 
pher, physician, and commentator on Aristotle. 

Zuinglius-Zwingli: A famous Swiss reformer; with Calvin 
founder of the Reformed Church. Born, 1484: killed at the 
battle of Kappel, 1531. 

Carolstadius: A Professor of Divinity at Wittemberg, who 
early joined Luther in the new religion. 

Suabia: The name of an ancient duchy in the southwest 
part of Germany. 

Notes to Scene 4 

Oporinus: Famulus and secretary for two years to Para- 
celsus. He has been suspected of defaming his memory. 

"Sic itur ad astra!" Such is the way to immortality. 

Liechtenf els : A canon who was rescued in extremis by 
the laudanum of Paracelsus, and who afterwards refused the 
stipulated fee, and was supported in his meanness by the 
authorities whose interference Paracelsus would not brook. 

"Quid mrdta?" Why say more? 

[237] 



BROWNING S PARACELSUS 

Cassia: A coarse variety of cinnamon; cassia-bark. 

Sandal-buds: The most important species of the sandal 
tree is an evergreen twenty or thirty feet high, with the aspect 
of privet. Its wood is very fragrant; it is systematically cul- 
tivated in India, where it is used for making perfumes and for 
medicinal purposes. 

"Stripes of labdanum" or ladanum, is a resinous juice that 
exudes from the Cestus ladaniferus, a shrub which grows in 
Spain and Portugal, and from C. Creticus and C. salvijdius, 
which grow in Crete, Syria, etc. An inferior sort is in long 
rolls curled up. It is used in perfumery, and in fumigating- 
pastils. 

Aloe-balls : Aloes. There are several kinds known to com- 
merce. The term here probably means the fragrant resin of 
the agallochum; lign-aloes the usual meaning in the Bible. 

Nard: Indian spikenard. An aromatic unguent prepared 
from this plant. 

"Sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-eaten 
shroud." The odors from the spices which embalm the 
mummy. 

Arras tapestry, specifically the use as hangings or 
curtains. 

Fiat experientia corpore vili. Let the experiment be made 
on a body of no value (a hospital patient, e.g.!). 

Notes to Scene 5 

Salzburg: Capital of the crownland of Salzburg in Austria; 
noted for its picturesque location. 

"Jove strikes the Titans down:" In Greek mythology 
a race of primordial deities, children of Uranus and Gsea 
(Heaven and Earth). While they were of gigantic size and 
enormous strength, after a terrible war they were overcome 
by the thunderbolts of Zleus (Jupiter). 

Phaeton: In Greek mythology the name of the sun-god 
Helios; also the son of Helios and Prote. The latter obtained 

[2381 



GLOSSARY OF WORDS 

permission from his father to drive his chariot (the smi) 
across the heavens, but being unable to check his horses, 
nearly set the earth on fire, and was slain by Zeus with a 
thunderbolt. 

Persic Zoroaster or Zarathushtra: The founder of the 
Perso-Iranian national religion, which prevailed at the time 
of the Achsemenidae (559-330 B.C.), to the close of the Sas- 
sanian dynasty (226-641 a.d.). The Zend-Avesta is the Zo- 
roastrian bible. 



[239 



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